


I gotta get outta this place.

by SheyRicci



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, General, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: Grounded at home, the team reminisces about their 'kid' while they sit around and wait for the pain-in-the-ass to sleep off an all-nighter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know...a soldier with all the issues I've assigned to Clay would not be serving in the capacity he does on the show in 'real life'. But this is not real life, it's fan-fiction, based on nothing but my enjoyment and imagination...isn't that a great thing?
> 
> I've tried to stop writing...really, I have. Truly! I said: self, no more until they announce the renewal - snort!
> 
> And does anyone else feel Season two should be released on DVD in, like, June? Give us all summer to re-watch? Yeah, yeah, the DVR, sure...but that limits me to the living room...me and apps and downloads are not friends. Okay, I'm ranting...Happy Summer ya'll!

 

* * *

"Been here before." Eric sighed, handed Jason a beer, sat down. "Nate? Sonny?"

"Never had the problem." Jason admitted. "Me and Alana... since we were in junior high."

"Thought this one was a keeper." Trent came out with more popcorn.

"I liked her." Brock said. "Bummer."

"Don't get it either." Sonny tossed a log on the fire in the pit.

They were all at Jason's house, hanging out in the backyard with a fire and beer and snacks while Clay slept in the hammock nearby.

"Least this one didn't turn him inside out." Ray said. "I just don't think he's ready for another serious relationship."

Yeah, Clay nuzzled into the fleece blanket someone had tossed over him. He didn't need it, but a blanket - even a light one on a warm night - was a source of comfort. That's what she said.

"I thought it was going good. It'd been a couple months." Eric said. "Wife even liked her. Dunno why it didn't work out."

Because...Clay thought...because...you guys.

_"Clay, the right woman is out there for you, but it's not me. I want it to be, but I can tell you, you can't commit. Not to me. I wish it were different, but…._

_"How can you say that? What makes you say that? How? How can you know that?"_

_"Because." She smiled sadly, waved a hand._  
_"Because the fridge your favorite beer's in, is Jason's, not mine."_  
_"Because when you need a ride, Davis is your first call."_  
_"Because when you need comfort, it's Brock you go to."_  
_"Because when you don't feel good, it's Trent you want."_  
_"Because when you get an afternoon off, it's Sonny you spend it with."_  
_"Because when you have a problem, it's Ray you want to handle it."_  
_"Because when you smile with affection, it's at an eighteen year old girl."_  
_"Because when you get into trouble, you call Eric."_  
_"Because when you need advice, it isn't me you ask."  
_ _"Because when you need someone...it's not me. It's never me Clay. You never want me. The only thing I can give you, you can't get from your team, is sex and you can get that anywhere."_

_Clay wanted to refute everything she was saying, but he couldn't. Whether he realized it or not, admitted it or not, she was right. At the place he was in right now in his life – after Brian, Adam, Stella, now Davis – he didn't have much room for a serious relationship._

_"I wish you well, I'll pray for you. I hope your team can get you through whatever this is." She kissed his cheek. "You ever need a friend, someone to have lunch with, call me, okay?"_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Hey, no, none of that. No need to be. I'm just not what you need right now." She cupped his chin. "No matter how much I wish differently. Take care of yourself."_

Emma came out with a pitcher of lemonade, Davis with cookies. The wives and girlfriends hadn't been invited and though Ray felt strongly Emma shouldn't be either, Jason had included her and that was that.

"Can I have a beer?" Emma asked her dad, sitting down at the edge of the chaise lounge between his feet.

"No." Jason replied, opened a bottle, handed it to her. "Make it last."

"Ohohohohoh...remember that time, we sent the kid out to buy beer?"

_**** Clay goes out for beer ****_

Jason was on edge, nervous, a bit scared, but he kept it to himself. He had to. It was his job.

Well, he kept it from the three assholes in front of him anyway. Maybe not so much from the people who knew him well, but he didn't care about them. All that mattered was not letting anyone he was staring down know he wasn't as calm and confident as he portrayed.

"Clay, come here." Jason ordered, waited to see if the kid would obey the command - or at least try to. It wasn't a fair command, he knew that, there would be consequences but still, he gave the order.

The kid obeyed.

Of course he was stopped with the butt of a rifle to the gut. He doubled over with a grunt, his cuffed hands attempting to protect his soft belly from a second blow which he took with a sickening thud on his wrist. He winced, breath catching, but he didn't cry out.

Jason kept his face expressionless but he felt that same punch to the gut. It was his fault Clay was spitting out blood...'Cause, didn't ya know? - everyone spit out blood when punched in the gut.

Jason barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Yeah, sure...right, only Clay.

Of course, he had no idea how many times Clay had already been hit or kicked or jabbed. The kid had a mouth and he strongly doubted Clay would have willingly remained silent these last hours.

He shifted his weight, felt the sun bake the back of his neck, his bare head. It was giving him a headache. Clay had been out in it all day, arrested and waiting his turn to be 'processed' into the local prison...heat stroke was possible, likely. He needed to get his hands on the kid and get him out of this sun.

He swallowed, resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of nervousness, while he watched and waited for Clay to control his breathing and fight through the round of pain from the hard blow to the gut.

Dammit kid, come on! Stand up!

He'd given the rookie the command knowing the outcome and yet, he'd wanted to see if Clay's training - loyalty, trust in him - would override the fear of pain. If he showed outright disobedience to the prison guards and Jason wasn't able to prevent him from being incarcerated, he would suffer for it dearly. Much more than a jab to the gut. But Jason needed to know if Clay would obey him over those who could possibly torture him to death - slowly.

Cause they just might need to run like hell for safety.

He was glad - and proud - the kid had tried to come to him, but yeah, he would be drinking away the guilt later tonight while keeping an eye on the kid 'cause Clay wasn't going to feel so good...beaten, dehydrated, over-heated...it was gonna be a long night.

And watch him he would, because come hell or international incident that would make the news back home, Jason was not going to leave here without him.

They faced another night with Clay being miserable and uncomfortable. If Doc didn't keep him in the infirmary - and that was a big if - Bravo would eat dinner and find excuses to remain in barracks while they all pretended they didn't want to watch the kid sleep, make sure he breathed. They would hide their relief that they had him back, complain about having to 'babysit', allow emotion to show only in the privacy of the shower or in the dark, head buried under a pillow.

Jason sighed, stared at the General who had taken Clay into police custody and was reluctant to let him go. He had one hell of a prize and he knew it.

How the hell did they keep ending up in these situations? The kid had been sent out to buy beer five minutes away from base - BEER - he'd hadn't come back.

Trent, always uneasy when their 'blonde Dennis the Menace' was out of their sight longer then the medic felt he should be, hadn't had to do much convincing to get the others to head out with him and look for their wayward rookie.

Jason took a breath, dismayed to find it shaky. Dammit!

Even Ray hadn't been concerned when Clay hadn't returned in three hours. Nope, the kid had taken up the habit lately of trolling to 'hit that' and they'd assumed he was spending his off day in a bar with some waitress or another. But Trent? No, not Trent. When Clay was hurt or sick or injured - and really, when wasn't he? - the medic and Doc kept him on a very short leash. They currently had the kid on some medication for something or another they'd assured Jason and Eric was nothing to worry about - something about testing allergies - and when he missed returning to base to see Doc for his scheduled dosage, Trent had put on his boots and headed out.

It had taken another three hours of investigation, searching, asking questions before they had landed here.

"You have no right to keep him." Jason said, face and tone expressionless, fingers itching to hit someone, grab Clay and run. "Let him go."

"I have no right to detain you." The General retorted. "I have every right to detain him." He pointed to Clay who, to Jason's relief, once again stood upright, stared defiantly. He didn't move, eye swollen closed, bleeding from his ear - Jason spat in the sand. Who the hell bled from the ear from a blow to the head? Clay-fucking-Spenser, that's who, when one whole side of his head was swollen and showing signs of blisters from the sun. Blood matted his hair, crusted in his beard, lips split and puffy. Jason wondered how much of a fight Clay had put up. Or were the guards that brutal? "We have him on film, we have witnesses."

Jason was pissed, but fear laced his belly. If the General managed to get Clay behind those gates, within the fence, in those prison walls, they wouldn't see the kid for months. If ever. Americans mysteriously died in prisons over here.

The prick had an American Military Officer and he hasn't about to let him go.

"I'm only going to say this once." Jason said. "Give him to me."

"He is under arrest by the authority of the Republic..."

Jason chose his next words carefully. This could go one of two ways: peacefully or a blood bath. How it went down was entirely up to them.

"You have ten seconds to let him come to me or you'll wish to hell you'd decided to stay home this morning." Jason said calmly, though he was anything but calm. They wouldn't live to see another morning - no one took any of his men away from him - but of course, he didn't say that. "Clay? Come here."

Clay blinked, shifted his weight but didn't take a step. He really, really wanted to be behind the protective back of his boss - safety lay that way, he knew that. Hell, he didn't want to let Jason out of his sight, didn't want to blink, afraid his boss would disappear, a mere mirage in the killing sun. Scared he would nod and agree that the General here had every right to detain him and let them take him through the gate into the prison as his image shimmered away, nothing but a heat induced hallucination.

And he could only see out of one eye.

The sun was unforgiving, his head hurt, his tongue thick, his mouth dry. Yeah, he'd been staked out in the sun long enough to have dehydrated. Blackburn was going to have a cow. He was feeling shaky, his knees weak. Was he trembling from fear? Pain? The sun? Lack of water? He was beginning to feel the only reason he remained on his feet was because two guards held his arms. That last hit to the gut had yet to fully subside.

He hadn't done anything to deserve this. Luckily, he'd been with the team long enough that the beginning of trust that had finally begun to blossom within him had somehow, somewhere, cemented into full blown trust. There was no longer any lingering doubt in the back of his mind that they would leave him behind, that they wouldn't come get him. He just hated - hated \- that he always put them in that position.

Did they ever blame him? Sure, when he was at fault. But not this time. This time he'd done nothing wrong. He'd gone out for beer, hell they'd sent him out - and this was the last time he believed his team would let him go out alone over here in some third/fourth world country where the color of his hair and eyes attracted notice. And yes, he'd worn both a hat and sunglasses today - and shit had just blown up in his face.

Yes, he'd run out of the store without paying for the beer, but he had returned, had never left the sidewalk. Though, if he had just kept going, he wouldn't be here. Jason wouldn't be here, mad enough to chew nails. But no, oh no. He had manners, had been taught values and morals and to know right from wrong. He'd stupidly gone back in to pay for the beer and here he was. Here they all were.

He'd been arrested, cuffed to the transport vehicle and left in the sun while the police got statements from the store owner. Then he'd been transported here and forced to stand outside in the sun with all the other detainees while he was being 'processed'. The General had come, easily identified who and what Clay was and singled him out. He'd been standing in line, chained to the fence while the General decided who knew what and what to do with him, when Jason had just walked out of the blinding sun and demanded his release.

So far, all Jason had managed to accomplish was to have Clay unchained from the fence.

Clay was relieved to see him, knew the team backed Bravo One up even if he couldn't see them. Wondered how Blackburn had obtained permission for the team to come get him, came to the conclusion that he hadn't. Oh, he would pay for that.

The guards had been brutal, Clay sported club shaped bruises on his back, shoulders, kidneys, one side of his face. They'd denied the detainees water or shade. Some had succumbed to the sun. Clay didn't know whether they lived or died, just knew they remained where they had fallen. Could a person die that fast over here, left in the sun? Trent would know. How long had it been anyway? Did the sun ever go down over here? Wasn't like there was a cloud in the sky to give anyone temporary relief. Or a tree.

"You will not be leaving with him today."

"Release him into my custody and we will walk away."

"That is not going to happen."

"Look buddy," Jason began, beginning to show signs of unraveling. "You won't like what will happen, you don't give him to me. You have no idea what I'm capable of doing."

"You get your State Department to negotiate..."

"This is negotiating." Jason interrupted. "And it's the only offer I'm going to make. Give him to me and you'll never see us again."

"And if I refuse?"

Jason stretched his lips across his teeth in a terrifying smile. "You're never going to get him behind bars." He extended his hand to Clay. "You don't let him go now, there won't be a building, a wall, a man left standing."

Well, damn.

"Kid finds himself in the most damnable situations." Sonny shouldered the MK48. It was a heavy gun to keep against his shoulder, but he dug deep, waited for Jason's signal.

"Think you got that backwards." Ray, up high, responded. He sited in, he'd be the first to fire, Jason gave the signal. "Kid is a trouble magnet, shit finds him."

"Tie his ass down, dye his fucking hair black." Trent added, rocket launcher aimed, ready.

"Stock up on Miss Clairol." Brock said, grenades, smoke pipes, HK416 ready with extra ammo clips. "Blonde hair over here?"

"Like those blue eyes aren't a problem." Eric said over comms.

"Contacts." His team chorused.

"Present for a harem, anyone?" Davis chimed in, tried to keep the mood light, grinned when several chuckles were returned.

Until...

"That prison is rumored to run a fight club." Mandy cut in. "Has nothing to do with blonde hair and blue eyes this time."

"Support One?" Eric called to Dutch, Support's Team Leader who had the men on Bravo's Tier Three team setting explosives. One good thing about the General being so focused on getting Clay inside the walls, he wasn't paying any attention to anyone else outside the prison walls.

"Waiting on One's signal." Dutch replied. "Good to go."

"Support Two?"

"Clear line of vision." Randy, Support's second in command, replied. He and Bravo's Tier Two team were ready to back up Brock with steady, relentless, rapid firing. "Waiting on Bravo One's signal."

"Take the tower first." Eric ordered. "Takes out their radar and electronics...they'll be dark without it."

"Roger that." Trent said, adjusted his aim, waited.

Engaged in silent show down, Jason teetered on the edge. His first priority was getting Clay away from the General's armed men. He didn't trust them. Not one bit. Half afraid the General would order Clay released only after he forced Jason to stand there and watch his men break kneecaps or shoot him in the thigh, the foot, he swallowed hard, curled his fingers into a fist.

The General weighed his options. While he would like to believe the asshole in front of him demanding the release of his 'perfect' prisoner was here alone, he very much doubted it.

He shielded his eyes, scanned the terrain, couldn't see a damn thing. The sun was high and hot. He remained quiet, thinking. He really didn't have any legal leg to stand on to detain the American, but knew it would take weeks for the U. S. to negotiate his release. While he could make good money arranging fights within the prison and betting on the American, for he knew how well American soldiers were trained, and lordy, just look at him...oh yeah, he could hold his own in a fight...did he really want to risk a...well, war?

He looked at Jason with hatred. He'd almost had the American behind his prison walls. All he'd had to do was step through the gate, drag the resisting American with him - by the hair if necessary, though he doubted it would be, the man had been beaten and left in the relentless, punishing sun over six hours, denied water - and nothing anyone said or did could have forced him to return him without proper procedure through the American State Department being followed.

He continued to stare at Jason...and this American asshole knew it too.

Seconds! Mere seconds! He'd missed a gold-mine by fucking seconds.

Dammit.

Jason had had enough. The sun was killing him...definitely killing Clay...this had to end. The ten seconds were up...had been minutes now. Bad decision General, stupid mistake.

The General, still staring at Jason, never saw him move - not even twitch or blink, but the guard holding Clay on the right, yelped in pain, crumpled to the ground, clutching his knee.

"Next one goes through his head." Jason stated. "Let. Him. Go."

"Great shot Ray." Sonny drawled. He wasn't going to admit, that like the General, he hadn't seen Jason give a signal either.

"Just moving shit along." Ray replied calmly. He wanted Clay and Jason out of there. Now.

Aah, so there hadn't been a signal. Jason and Ray were that close, Ray knew what Jason wanted without being told or seeing a sign.

God Bless you Ray Perry! Sonny was going to hug him, plant a big ole smack atop his head.

"One hundred American dollars." The General stated, paid his fallen guard no attention. "The bill for the stolen beer."

Jason seethed. Clay hadn't stolen the beer. Yes, he'd left the store without paying for it, but he'd heard a commotion in the street, screams from a child and gone to investigate. Finding no one who had needed his help, he'd returned to the store with the beer to pay for it, had been met with a gun to his face and arrested.

And Bravo knew this after some knee busting had gotten them nowhere and Brock had bribed a ten year-old kid with a dollar to tell them what he'd seen. A whole fucking dollar.

A hundred bucks? Hell, the six-pack of bottles weren't worth more than five bucks.

A hundred dollars or an international incident? Decisions, decisions. One or the other, 'cause no way was this prick taking Clay away from him.

Jason patted his pockets, pulled his wallet. Did he even have a hundred dollars on him? He should know. But he didn't.

"Two hundred, thirty-seven dollars." Jason tossed the bills into the sand at the General's feet. "Now. Let. Him. Go." He waited. "I'm not going to tell you again."

"Take him then." The General waved for the remaining guard to let go of Clay. "I don't want to see either of you again. Leave my country."

Released, Clay wanted to walk to Jason, he really, really, truly did. But Jason shimmered and wavered before his eyes. Invisible waves of heat became visible only to Clay, radiated off the sand and he could neither see nor walk straight.

Jason cursed, dug a toe in the sand. He'd had enough.

He'd won. He hadn't had to pay the General anything. Could just have had his men begin the assault, grabbed Clay and split...but damn, the General, with his sneer and attitude just continued to piss him off.

He stepped forward, dipped a shoulder, hoisted Clay before the kid could hit the sand. He was reluctant to hang the kid upside down, but didn't have a choice. He sure as hell wasn't going to drag him.

It made Jason snap - they were going to pay.

"Don't turn your back, don't turn your back." Ray chanted. "Dammit Jason, just walk away."

Jason turned his back.

Ray sighed, waited to see if either guard or the General would attempt to shoot Jason as he walked away, carrying his burden. Let them try, he'd make sure they never got off a shot.

He didn't have to worry about it.

Jason took two steps, raised his hand...his fisted hand.

There. The signal they were all waiting for.

With a yippee-kai-I-Oh Mutha-Fucker! Sonny let loose.

The walls blew, the gates blew, the tower blew.

The General and his guards would be too busy trying to contain the inmates from escaping to worry about coming after Bravo as they retreated to the base.

By the time Jason reached the transport truck, Chris idling and ready to go, let Trent have Clay - winced at the demand, order, for ice, towels, water, IV - the General was out of sight, dealing with the destruction leveled on the prison for daring to take one of Jason's own.

If Jason had managed to lay eyes on him one last time, he would have put a bullet between his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wait," Emma turned to look at her dad. "You risked war, leveled a prison, released possibly dangerous criminals because a man didn't release your 'rookie' in the ten seconds you demanded?"

"Oh cupcake, you don't wanna piss off your daddy." Sonny bopped her on the head. Yeah, that was 'all' that happened. "Heads roll, you do."

Literally rolled. Yes, seriously. Well, okay, maybe not rolled, seeing as how when they were blown off the body they were attached to, they tended to be in pieces, but no since giving the poor girl nightmares.

He agreed with Ray, she shouldn't be here, but since she was, and Jason wasn't doing anything to curb anyone's tongue, Sonny was gonna roll with it.

"Wow. Geez Dad."

"No one fucks with what's mine." Jason said darkly. When Emma turned to look at him, he dialed it back. "That kid over there? You all wanted him, I got him, gave him to you, that makes him mine." No need to admit he'd wanted the General dead for daring to refuse to release Clay the first time he'd asked, had seen to it, even if he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger himself. "We ended the illegal fighting racket, that's all."

"He was okay, right?" Emma pressed. "Clay?" She knew he was here with them, fit and fine...still, she got the idea his recovery hadn't been easy.

"He was fine." Ray assured her. Details not required. No need for Emma to know how long it had taken for Clay to be okay. "Only hurt for a couple days. Worst was getting those cuffs off."

"Never seen the like." Eric agreed. No need for Emma to ever know how ruthless and violent her dad was. "No key we had popped the lock."

Emma couldn't help it, her eyes strayed over to Clay but his hands were under the blanket, and she had no idea when the 'event' at the prison had taken place.

"Don't piss Jason off?" Brock scoffed at Sonny. "Who went all Paul Bunyan on some old widow's house?"

"Yeah, I did do that." Sonny admitted sheepishly.

"Left the barn standing though." Ray pointed out.

"Goat didn't do anything to me."

"Those huts are a one room shack, but really Sonny? An ax?" Eric chuckled. "And to light a bonfire with what you hacked to shit?"

"She didn't answer me." Sonny shrugged. "You don't do that when he's missing."

"Sonny Quinn rule number nine," Trent tapped bottles with Eric. "You don't speak the language, you lose your house."

"You ain't right in the head, you got no say." Sonny shot back. "Heads don't bounce of walls, Mr. Medic."

"Hey, don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about." Trent retorted. "I know that kid. He can dehydrate and develop an infection within six hours."

"When we lost him in the Arabian desert?" Jason questioned. "That's on Ray."

"I sent him out to take photos Jay."

_***Clay goes out to take pictures***_

Lisa gnawed on a nail. When had she developed that nasty habit? She slapped her hand to her knee with an impatient sigh...when she'd seen Clay's driver on base and he'd snapped at her with an attitude that his orders had been to drive Clay out there, not to wait or remain with him or bring him back.

She watched through the windshield, recalled the morning from hell.

When she'd asked the ass how long he'd been back on base, he'd refused to answer. When she'd asked him how Clay was supposed to get back, he'd walked away from her. She'd had to get Eric who, after getting the answers they sought, had told her to get Brock, the only team member on base, take a Humvee and go get Clay.

The Commander had then left her to obey his orders while he went to deal with a soldier who was soon to be very unhappy.

Brock had been out all night, watching activity on a house under observation and she'd been reluctant to wake him up but she couldn't go get Clay by herself and there was no one else who could go with her. Bravo was out on assignment.

He hadn't complained, he'd gotten dressed, grabbed a power bar and bottle of water, followed her out.

 _"What's that?"_  
" _Med pack."_  
_She nodded. "Right. Just, you hate starting IV's."_  
_"Doesn't mean I can't." He yawned. "You drive."_  
_"No Cerberus?"_  
_"Not this time of day."_  
_"You expect trouble?" She watched him check his .9mm before securing it behind his back._  
_"It's Clay."_

She'd driven, Brock had slept and Clay wasn't where he was supposed to be.

They'd found his gear, realized, somehow for some reason, he'd plummeted down the steep, rocky hillside. Lisa felt better after Brock assured her Clay would've survived the fall, then sick again when he admitted there was no way Clay could have climbed back up the hill to avoid the sun.

She'd driven to the bottom of the hill - mountain - cliff, whatever, Brock had gotten out, climbed up a rocky embankment, perched on a rock, raised binoculars, stared out at the desert the road gave way to.

He'd returned to the Humvee, opened the drivers door. Lisa hadn't argued, nimbly jumped to the passenger seat. She'd never driven a Humvee onto and across sand before and didn't want to be responsible for burying it up to its axles and requiring someone be sent to pull them out.

And now? She hunched a shoulder, wiped the sweat from her face.

The barren landscape stretched endlessly beyond what they could see and Clay was somewhere out there without water, a hat, sunglasses or a way to communicate. If he was hurt or disoriented...she swallowed...NO! She bit her lip, squinted from the sun glare. Clay had blue eyes - light colored eyes could be sensitive to prolonged periods of bright lights. His sunglasses weren't purchased at your local drugstore.

The dunes and mounds and hills of nothing but sand shimmered and wavered in the unrelenting sun. The longer she stared, the more the sand moved. Depressed, she looked away to give her eyes a rest.

This sun could kill anyone.

If Eric hadn't sent the driver from base by the time Bravo returned, the dumb ass would find out whether or not his ankles fit behind his ears without his knees breaking.

"Brock? Where're we going?"

Brock sighed, eyes bloodshot and burning...Why couldn't they just once, go on a mission with comfortable temperatures and reasonable weather? It was always mist in the hills, fog in the jungle, mud, mire, bogs. So hot he burned his feet, he tried to go barefoot or so cold, his hands teetered on frostbite, he lost a glove.

He drove towards the structure he'd seen through the binoculars, all the while saying a prayer he'd find Clay there. It was too far out to drive to safely, so he stopped the Humvee on firm sand, and they walked the rest of the way, lugging a cooler, duffel bags, back packs.

He cast a look heavenward - 'Thank you' - when they found Clay beneath the rickety lean-to Brock had seen through the binoculars, where he'd sought what little shade the eaves offered from the relentless sun.

She scrambled under the roof, dropped the duffel bag, fell to her knees next to Clay. Her fingers went to his neck, felt for a pulse, blew her breath out when she found it.

"Good?" Brock asked. She nodded. He let his breath out, unaware he'd been holding it. Good or bad, their kid had luck.

"Fast." Lisa sat back, let Brock take over. "Skin feels dry." She was trained in first aid but Brock knew Clay better, operated accurately under pressure in a faster time than she ever would. She shrugged out of her back pack, waited for Brock to tell her what he needed.

"Clay?" Brock was on his knees, leaned forward until his cheek was in the sand, face to face with Clay. "Hey buddy, you with me?" He ran his fingers through Clay's hair, tugged an ear affectionately. "Spenser?"

"Hey." Clay slurred, raising his head. "Ow."

"What hurts?"

"Me." His shoulders, back, butt and thighs stung, burned. The more attention he paid to the sensation, the more painful it became. Yeah, not sunburn, he thought, squirmed uneasily.

Clay tried, really tried not to be sour with Ray. It wasn't his fault, Clay was stranded out here. Least, he didn't think it was Ray's fault. Better to believe it was simply a misunderstanding, a miscommunication, then to let his imagination run wild and believe Ray would stoop to playing such a joke.

Though, to be fair, even if Ray had thought it funny to leave him out here, it wasn't Ray's fault Clay had fallen down the hill, leaving everything he needed to survive in this climate behind.

He didn't know how long he'd been under the lead-to, how long he'd slept, if he'd slept, but he sure as hell didn't feel good now that he was awake. He was still hot, still dirty, felt sweaty, felt like he was being baked alive in an oven. He was on his belly and he was dizzy - even with his eyes closed. He was eating sand and was too tired to spit it out - even though it coated his teeth.

His head hurt - was killing him.

He was going to catch hell for this. His phone, his water and Gatorade, his hat, his sunglasses, his gun were in his back pack that he'd taken off and set aside when he'd lain flat on a rock overhang to take photos of a strip of sand that was under surveillance as a possible air landing site.

The rock had given way under his weight, sent him tumbling ass over head over heels down the rocky hillside...he'd woken up in the sun, found his way here - crawled, he thought, because walking had hurt - and here is where someone had found him.

He tried to push up but his hands found no purchase in the loose sand. He needed a firm surface to bear his weight and since that was lacking, he rolled over, pulled his knees up and yelped!

Holy shit!

He immediately flopped onto his stomach, arms and legs dry swimming in the sand, but again, he found no firm purchase. A comforting hand gently squeezed his shoulder, a thumb caressed circles on his collarbone until he laid still, concentrated on catching his breath, spit sand. The hell?!

He panted, willed his heart to return to its rightful position and resume its normal rhythm. Asked his head to cease and desist its attempts to float away.

"Easy kid, take it easy." Brock murmured. "We're right here, you're not alone." He went up on his knees, rested his ass on his heels.

Clay's cry of pain had startled him. The kid was mobile, could move, was conscious and coherent, so, what was the problem? He felt Clay over, up, down, lifted his shirt. Clay winced, his breath hitched, he moved away or flinched, hunched a shoulder, his toes dug into the sand but he didn't try again to roll over.

"What is it?" Lisa asked anxiously, calmly. She hadn't completely looked Clay over but she didn't see any blood or awkward angles to arms, hands or feet. Brock was much quicker than she was, then again, he had more experience identifying what was wrong with Clay.

"This is why we wear camo." Brock sighed. "Dammit Clay, only you."

"He's supposed to be a tourist out taking photos of the scenery." Lisa pointed out. "Road rash?" She guessed. Brock nodded, shrugged, shook his head. "Bad?"

Clay wore cargo shorts and a t-shirt with canvas sneakers.

"Yeah, well, didn't do him any good." He pulled a back pack close, opened a flap. "Trent had him, he'd scrub him raw with a scrub brush."

"Trent will get him." Lisa pointed out.

"Yeah. Poor kid." Brock said sympathetically for what the kid would be going through in the very near future. "Wouldn't wanna be him."

"What's this?" Lisa picked up Clay's wrist. "Jesus Brock...the hell...?"

"Cacti. Don't touch it." Brock grinned, pointed back to the cliff Clay had most likely come down mostly on his ass. "Spines, glochids. Use tweezers."

"So what, he...? Oh." The reason Clay remained on his stomach. "Not fatal though." Her lips twitched into a grin. She took the tweezers and hemostats Brock handed her and began to pluck clumps of glochids from Clay's hands and wrists, withdrew cacti spine from his elbows. "Sorry, sorry." She soothed him when he jerked or flinched and went ow. "Some of these are pretty deep." She winced when she drew blood. "Sorry."

"Painful." Brock admitted. At some time or another they'd all fought with and lost to, a cactus or thorny bush of some sort or another. Trent removed thistle, thorns, needles, bristles, spines, glochids and anything else that could puncture skin from a plant tree or bush or cactus out in the field with tweezers and glue. "And in places he ain't gonna like having 'em removed."

She ignored that comment, wasn't going there. Haha. "Can you pull the Humvee closer?" Though, if she had to - and she didn't because Brock was here and Trent and the Doc were an hour or so away - then she would, but she didn't, so she wouldn't and...damn, she was blushing. It was the heat, yeah, the sun, that was it.

"No." Brock pulled out scissors. "You bashful?"

With a roll of her eyes, Lisa took the scissors. Bashful? No. Respectful of privacy? Yes.

"Spenser? Come on, on your elbows, no, don't try and sit up. Yeah, that's it. Squeeze." Brock pulled the tab up on a bottle of water with his teeth, let Clay hold it. No screw off caps when Clay was down. They had enough experience with the kid to know how to help him drink. "How's the head?"

"Dizzy." Clay tongued sand out of his mouth. "Aches." He reached with his hand to assist his tongue but Brock stopped him. "Le'm'go!" Clay whined irritably.

"Don't touch your mouth." Brock warned, wet a cloth, wiped Clay's face, lips, chin, discarded it. Wet another, scrubbed sand from the kids cracked, split, dried lips, tossed it aside. "Better?"

"Hmmm..." Christ alive, he wanted more, nudged Brock's hand with his chin who obliged. Water was poured over his head, into his eyes, down the back of his neck. Brock gently toweled him dry, held his head, damp towel over his face, in his hands. Finally Clay sighed, reluctantly pulled away from the comforting touch. "Thirsty."

"Bet you are. Rinse and spit first...no, spit that way." Brock turned Clay's head away from him. "You keep that down, I'll let you have some Gatorade."

Clay squeezed the bottle, water sprayed in his face. He licked the moisture from his lips, took a drink. God, water tasted so good. Brock grinned, let him play.

Lisa easily cut through Clay's cargo shorts. Hell, he lost a lot of clothing because someone - usually Trent - for some reason or another, cut them off him. She would know, she ordered his gear and equipment and that included clothing for missions.

Relieved he wore boxer briefs, she picked up the tweezers and began to pluck out the larger spines and clumps of glochids from the back of his thighs.

"You know," she began, felt when he tensed or twitched. "You wore longer tightie-whitie's..."

"Wear all colors." Clay really didn't feel all that well. For some odd, never-before-experienced reason, the sight of his blood-spotted hands and wrists bothered him. "Wouldn't...help...ow...ow...owowow...OW!"

"Might have helped protect your thighs." She caught Brock's eye, shook her head. Yeah, she could remove the larger spines, but there were too many glochids embedded too deeply for even Brock to remove out here.

"Okay, here." Brock handed Clay a bottle of green Gatorade. "Small sips, often as you can, okay?"

"...gonna...take...a nap..." He mumbled thickly. "Feel...not...so...good."

"No!" Brock said sharply. "No, you're not. You need to drink."

Clay growled, tired of being ordered and bossed around all the time. But he wasn't stupid, just stubborn and he knew he was likely dehydrated, so he remained on his elbows, gnawed on the pop-up tab, drank the Gatorade.

"Spread your legs." Lisa ordered, nudged between his knees with her free hand. Clay obeyed. "Jesus Brock, he...I mean, you've seen this before...do punctures like this always swell and bleed?"

"Sure, sure." Brock nodded. "After, you know, after being stuck in your skin for two, three _days_."

"Fuck you." Clay retorted, stomach roiling. He laid his head on the sand, waited to see if the Gatorade was going to make a reappearance.

"Doing okay?" Brock asked. Using a razor blade and tweezers he helped Lisa pluck and pull. The sooner Clay could comfortably walk, the better. "Clay?"

"I...don't...think...so." Clay swallowed hard, took a drink. "Brock? Ugh." His throat refused to accept the Gatorade and it spewed all over the sand. He moaned, coughing.

Brock grabbed and arm and ankle, dragged him sideways, resumed plucking.

"Can you tell if he's running a fever?" Lisa asked. "He is, isn't he? From...this? These...he...Brock!" She sat back, frustrated. "How do you get all these out? Get the sand out of the holes these left? I can't keep it out! Could he have gotten an infection this fast?"

"I'm not Trent, I need a thermometer." Brock pulled one from a pack. "Hot water, glue, adhesive, scrub brush, I dunno. That's Doc's problem, not mine." Mine is keep him alive until he gets to Doc. Not that the situation was that dire. Not this time, thank God. "And you don't. He's Clay, so I'm gonna say yes."

"I yank on a spine, but it's barbed and breaks off."

"Yup."

"Should we wait until we get back to base? Let Doc do this?"

"Nope."

She didn't know why and she didn't ask. Brock had his reasons and he didn't need to share them with her. He would explain later, after he'd had some sleep.

"More we get out, the more antiseptic cream we can put on against infection. Sand's a bitch."

Lisa didn't order medical supplies beyond the standard issued first aid kit. No, the medical kits and supplies for anyone on Bravo were Trent's domain. She knew Blackburn had to sign off on many of his requests. Knew the expense was often beyond what they were allowed, but somehow, someway, Trent always got what he wanted.

And she bet this thermometer was one such thing. Because Clay had once said, after one of his stints in a hospital somewhere, that he preferred the one that rolled across his forehead rather than the one they stuck in his ear.

It probably cost close to a thousand dollars, it was definitely hospital grade and yet, were they in combat or battle, it could easily be discarded. Yeah, she could see why McCall got upset over Bravo's expenses...

A hand under Clay's chin, Brock held his head off the sand, rolled the thermometer across his forehead. He'd come after Clay with the intent to pick him up and return to base, go back to bed. He hadn't expected to find the kid in this condition, though he wasn't surprised either.

If the kid's fever was over 102, he'd call Blackburn. It'd taken them nearly 90 minutes to drive out here...the longer Clay was out here in this heat, this sand, with those puncture wounds festering...dehydrated, having trouble swallowing, struggling to keep liquids down, not sweating, possibly injured from the fall...Brock sighed, he was too tired to think straight.

"Don't suppose you have to piss?" Brock's shoulders sagged. 103.6. Too high for him to ignore. "Tell me what color it is?"

"The...hell?" Clay murmured. "NO!"

Alright, fine. He'd take Clay's blood pressure, if it was low, he'd definitely call Blackburn. He'd need help getting Clay out of here because it was obvious the kid wouldn't be walking out. Well, he could carry him, but he'd have to sling him over his shoulder and he didn't hang upside down well, so unless it was a life or death situation they tried not to do that.

He pulled a wrist monitor from one of the bags, secured it around Clay's wrist, waited. Trent pooh-poohed their accuracy, but in a pinch, even he would rely on the reading. 90/60.

Shit.

He and Lisa could carry him, maybe risk pulling the Humvee closer, but it would still be a half mile walk...

"Sorry kid." Brock gave the blond curls a tousle. "Gonna make you feel better, gimme a minute."

"Want me to try and pull the Humvee closer?" Lisa offered. Her fingers were cramped from holding the tweezers so tight because she was sweating and they were slippery. She was sure Brock had latex gloves, she should ask for a pair.

She watched as Brock prepared to insert an IV in the back of Clay's hand...Trent's preferred location. Once the saline drip started, the bag hanging on a nail from the roof, Brock pulled his phone, stepped out into the sun to get a full signal.

"Keep him on his belly." He told Lisa, handed her a tube, pack of Q-tips. "Blackburn? Yeah, hey, problem."

"Hey." She said softly when Clay stirred, moved restlessly, missing Brock. "Stay still as you can, okay? Gonna dab this on a few of these larger, uh, cuts."

Brock hung up, called Trent. He hated to blindside the medic, but if he didn't call and report Clay's condition to him, Brock would find a false report in his medical file, limiting his diet for the next month. No one wanted to be around Brock Reynolds when he was denied sweets and coffee.

Trent was with Sonny when his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket. It wasn't his personal phone, it was his mission issued phone, so it had to be someone from base. Or maybe Jason or Ray.

"Brock?" He barked surprised when 'FIVE' flashed across his screen. "Hey, thought you were getting some...what?"

Sonny lowered his binoculars, turned at Trent's tone.

"You're where? How did...No...no...how low? How high? Did you...right, yeah, okay." Trent sat up, shouldered the phone, began to pack. "Sonny's with me. No, you're right, keep plucking, use the tube with the blue print...yeah, it'll sting, but he won't throw a bad reaction to it."

Brock swiped the tube from Lisa's hand as she was squeezing, replaced it with another. She shrugged, dropped the Q-tip, popped the tab, squirted the contents on a new Q-tip.

"What? No, don't. I'm...yeah...oh."

Sonny didn't question Trent, just silently began to help him pack. He could hear most of what Trent was saying, missed some, grinned.

"Cerb not happy?" He teased.

"Kid fell down side of a rocky hill, took out a cactus with his ass...dehydrated, running a fever, low blood pressure. Davis is still plucking thorns and spines and thistle outta him."

Sonny's grin faded, he stared. "He did what?"

"I'm on my way." He told Brock, hung up, pocketed the phone. "Let's go get him."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEASON THREE! WOOT-WOOT!
> 
> And back to 9 o'clock! Now THAT's what I'm talking about...

 "You...you didn't leave him out there on purpose, did you Uncle Ray?"

Ray kissed the top of her head on his way by to check on Clay...oh, if only she knew the truth behind all what she was hearing.

"I assumed and that's not something we can do in our job." He set the hammock in motion, watched it swing, waited to see if Clay would wake up. He didn't. "No kitten, I didn't leave him out there on purpose."

"His bad luck..." Sonny shook his head. "Only fucking cactus plant on the cliff and he finds it with his ass."

"His good luck..." Eric argued. "Finds shelter in a fucking desert."

"You make him puke," Jason warned Ray, tipped the beer bottle, pointed the neck at the swinging hammock. "It's on you."

"Gentle sway." Ray blew him off. "Just like his hammock on the plane."

"So, was he okay?" Emma asked her dad. "I mean, he was, he's here, but..."

"Uh, yeah." Jason assured her. "Sure he was, bit sore, didn't sit too comfortably for a couple days..."

"Sore? Jesus Jason, he was miserable." Davis snorted. "He was on his belly with IV's and antibiotics and pain meds for days. You let them cover him with glue. They sang rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub and had you hold him down while they scrubbed him with brushes. Have you ever tried to cool that man down with ice and cold water, covered in sand, under a shitty lean-to? Hey, hear me now. He doesn't like it. He..." She saw Emma's eyes widened, stray over to where Ray kept the hammock swinging. "Raymond Perry, the last time you set him swinging in his hammock, we had to land in the middle of an ocean."

"Yeah, didn't happen quite that way." Jason gave her a playful punch.

"Wasn't an ocean." Brock corrected. "Was a sea or a strait, body of water somewhere."

"Still, we didn't make the ship we were headed to." Lisa pointed out.

"Any idea what that cost?" Eric muttered darkly. "Think big. Like, 7 figures big."

Ray halted the hammock.

_***Clay sleeps in his hammock***_

Ray was the last member of Bravo to trudge up the ramp onto their transport C17 that was revving up to take off. Both Eric and Jason were eager to be out of this country, and Ray didn't blame them. The mission hadn't been difficult, just grueling and while everyone was wet, cold, tired, hungry and dirty, they were willing to forgo hot showers, a hot meal and dry clothing if it meant they could get the hell outta here.

They could dry off, eat a sandwich once they were airborne. He knew Davis had coolers packed with hoagies and water and Gatorade, because, well, she was Davis.

He tossed his back pack onto a seat, continued on. His luggage had been loaded into the belly of the plane, he kinda wished he'd taken the opportunity to retrieve the duffel with his clothes. Eh, well, not important. Davis and Mandy would not be offended, they sat around in nothing but blankets.

He stepped around crates, boxes, over peoples feet as he made his way to the back where the hammocks were strung. That there, was what was important...God-damn-pain-in-the-fucking-ass-Clay Spenser.

Ray took a breath, not surprised to find it was shaky. Oh yeah, it had been another close call with the kid. He'd up and gone off - against orders - with the local military to help find the kids who had scattered when the assault began on the village.

Why?

Well because, the kid had said, he spoke the language. What the hell sense did that make?  Of all the half-cocked, asinine reasons!  Yeah, yeah, he spoke six languages fluently, could get by with several others, but scared kids were not on them. Bravo had cleared the village, no kids had been in harms way, that was all they had to worry about.

Sure, sure, you'd think, eh, no big deal, right? Wrong. Because this was Clay and whenever they let him out of their sight, shit happened. Ray hyperventilated whenever he thought about what could have happened this time!

Clay had somehow managed to fillet layers of skin off both hands - palms, fingers, knuckles, backs and heels. Most severe case of road rash Trent had ever seen, how'd Clay had gone and done it, remained unknown. Not even Trent could explain it, and he'd seen pretty much everything in the field. Had, at one time or another, had anything and everything thrown at him.

Well, it happened because he'd given away his gloves but Trent still couldn't explain the injury, had never seen the like and when Clay had tried to tell him he'd fallen and slid and climbed and grabbed and slid and there'd been a rock and a bush he hadn't been made any sense, and Trent had jokingly stuffed a glove - hahaha - in his mouth to shut him up and...here they were.

Ray didn't know who was going to kick the kid's ass first:

Blackburn, because Bravo had had to go after him - again.  
Jason, because he had disobeyed orders - again.  
Sonny, because he'd given away his gloves that might have prevented the injury.  
Or Trent, for getting hurt and being unable to tell him what had happened - again.

Ray sighed, arms crossed, shoulder against a stack of secured crates.

The kid wasn't comfortable, was in some pain, and wasn't as responsive as Trent wanted him to be. That made Trent uneasy, hesitant about flying him home - he didn't think Clay's injury was serious, just inconvenient and uncomfortable. No man wanted to have both hands bandaged with his fingers bound together.

But it was the unknown, possible medication that had Trent questioning whether or not it was okay to fly and it wasn't fair to put that all on Trent, so Jason, Eric and Ray had made the decision to load up and fly out, but it was Clay, sooooo...that led to the problem that was...

Clay hadn't been with them when he'd hurt his hands and he'd been unconscious when the other team's medic had tended to him. They didn't speak English, Bravo's translator - Clay - had been knocked out so they didn't know what the medic might have given him, though Trent guessed and everyone concurred, it would have been something for pain. Before they could wake Clay and have him ask, the other team had been called off.

So far Clay wasn't showing any signs of any kind of reaction. Heart rate was normal, breathing wasn't restricted, he showed none of his obvious signs that he was in pain and it was too soon for signs of infection. Trent wanted to get home, turn Clay over to Doc. He'd joked Clay would have to ask for help to take a piss, or eat during the flight, then ordered the kid to the plane to get some sleep.

But Trent was on edge and they all knew it because he didn't bother to hide it.

"Hey Spenser." Ray nudged his hammock, wanted to see the kid stir, hear him moan - reassurance the kid breathed. "You good?"

"Mmmmm." Clay blinked up at him, snuggled into the depths of the hammock under the blanket Lisa had given him, went back to sleep when it was obvious Ray didn't want anything from him.

Satisfied, Ray didn't think anything more of it, walked away, Clay gently swinging in his hammock.

The plane was moving, hadn't yet picked up speed for take-off, but they were taxing to the runway. Cerberus erupted into a barking frenzy.

"Brock! Do something about that dog!" Ray complained. "Why isn't he crated for his safety during take-off?"

"He wouldn't leave Clay." Brock said, paused.

Six men and two women unbuckled, rose from their seats, rushed to the back of the plane.

Clay was on the floor, blanket tangled around his legs. He was on his side, elbow supporting his weight, hands tucked towards his stomach - heaving, retching, puking, choking - take your pick, he had it all covered.

"Hey Cerb, who's a good boy, eh?" Sonny fondled the dog's ears, who, now that he had everyone's attention, sat quietly.

"Clay? Look at me!" Trent ordered, squatted down. "Clay, hey! Heyheyhey...you with me? Lemme see." He reached for Clay, cupped his chin to  hold his head still and raise it so he could see the kid's face.

Clay tolerated the touch, let Trent tip his head towards the light, then pulled away, let his head thump against the floor. Being horizontal felt best right now.

"Anything to spit out?" Trent asked, hunched over Clay. "Easy, you wanna lie down?" Clay shook his head. "No? Talk to me...what's wrong?"

"...don't..." Clay panted, swallowed, panted. "...feel..."

"You don't feel good, I know. Hands hurt? Pain bad?" Trent gave him a gentle nudge. "Lie down."

"Ow." Clay eased onto his back, held his hands out to Trent. "Numb."

The bandages ended just past his wrists and visible swelling could be seen up to his elbows, the exposed skin puffy and pudgy. Trent checked to make sure the bindings weren't too tight - they weren't.

"Want some ice?" Ray asked.

Clay only wore a t-shirt, a damp one, the blanket his only source of warmth. Ice would likely set his teeth to chattering, give him goose bumps, but if it helped the swelling and pain in his hands, they would find other ways to try and keep him warm.

"Stomach." Clay shifted uneasily, but didn't move. "Dunno...feels...like..." He blew his breath out, hunched a shoulder to wipe his face on his shirt. "Sea...sick."

Fuck, Trent thought, kid was throwing a reaction and they were about to be thousands of feet in the air. He'd have to put Clay on oxygen and IV's and possibly sedate him if the nausea and vertigo or dizziness became too much for the team to watch him go through.

No matter how well a person adapted to the motion of a boat - large or small - on calm or rough waters, anyone who spent a good amount of time on or in a boat eventually, at some time or another, experienced seasickness and it was never anything anyone wanted to deal with.

"Stop take-off." He told Eric when Clay didn't bother to roll over or turn his head when he spit up saliva. He waited, but when Clay didn't cough up anything more, didn't make him roll over, just wiped his mouth and chin. "Breathe through it. You're okay."

Eric didn't argue, went to issue the order. 

"Seasick?" Sonny repeated, he stood back with Brock, Ray, Mandy and Davis. "Clay, you dingbat, you're on a plane, not a boat."

Clay flipped him off...well, raised a mitted hand and flapped in his direction.

"Trent?" Jason asked after Trent sat back, Clay flat on the floor. "Can you give him anything?"

Trent shrugged. "Breathing's compromised, hearts skipping a beat, pulse is racing...he's sweating, spitting out saliva, gets dizzy, he lifts his head. I don't like it."

That was enough for Jason.

Orders were given, the plane returned to the hangar and they prepared to disembark.

"Sir?"

Eric turned to address the man who had addressed him. "Anything?"

"Yes sir, there is a Naval hospital ship within flight range. Chopper can easily transport your injured man to it."

Eric conferred with Jason who deferred to Trent who weighed their options. 

"Let's go for it." Trent decided. "Twenty minute flight versus what, eleven-twelve hours on the plane? It's a surgical ship, right? Doctor, lab, yeah...his best bet."

"He got seasick on a plane," began Sonny with a smirk. "And you wanna put him on a ship?"

"Give him a Scopolamine patch, will take a while to kick in, but don't want to give him anything with immediate results, could thrown him into a severe reaction." A while? More like four hours, but eh.

Sonny nodded, the situation had the potential to be serious, he joked because it was how he dealt,

"Don't...wanna..." Clay slurred, cheek on the wet, cold metal floor. He'd somehow turned onto his stomach without rolling over. "...move..."

"I'm going with you." Trent assured him.

"Wait...you?" Sonny lost his smirk. "Aren't we all going?"

"No." Eric said. "We will resume our flight once Spenser..." and he saw the hackles go up. Oh, this team did not like being separated. "Guys, it's not...we can't..."

Clay coughed weakly, spit out puke, saliva, phlegm, mucus. He lifted his head, tried to rub his eyes, pouted at his hands, pulled back from the mess on the floor, and with a whimper, rested his cheek on the nearest boot.

The C17, minus seven men, two women and a dog, flew back to the states.

()()()

Agitated, Clay squirmed in the seat that he was being securely strapped into. He felt hands between his thighs, nudging and prodding. He tried to slide down, move forward, stand up, turn sideways but the straps and buckles were pulled, made shorter or longer, loosened and tightened, finally fastened.

"Lift your ass."

He automatically arched his back, blindly obeyed the command from the medic whom he was accustomed to allowing unlimited access. He didn't flinch at the hands under his thighs, the strap he was sitting on pulled free, nor did he react when it was pulled across his belly and around his waist. He heard a snap and the buckle was secure. He tried to loosen the straps over his shoulders that buckled into the anchored clasp in the seat between his thighs, but yeah, his hands were useless, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Really? Is this necessary? I feel like I'm 3 and in a car seat." He complained sleepily, not completely sure all what they were doing to him. He wasn't sure where he was, how he'd gotten there or where he was going, but he knew who he was with and that was all he needed to know.

"Really? Now? You had to wake up now?"

"There's no place for you to lie down." Someone told him.

"We all have to buckle in." Said someone else.

"Not like you can buckle yourself in."

From then on, he heard every other word or so...lost the ability to follow what anyone was saying - or who was saying it.

"...flew into...storm... rough ride."

Laughter.

Clay wanted to protest, argue. At least disagree, but he was too miserable to do more than scowl. The headphones set heavy on his ears, made his head too heavy to hold up and he couldn't lift his chin from his chest no matter how hard he tried. The effort made his head roar, his ears pound, so he quit trying. He soon forgot about the tight straps holding him into his seat when the headphones were removed and a helmet was put on his head. Fingers pulled the strap under his chin, tightened it securely, replaced the headphones.

Wow, how rough was this ride going to get?

His knee was patted and he felt the dampness of fabric as two large bodies settled on either side of him and began the process of buckling themselves in.

"Kid, the things we do for you."

"You all could have been on the C17, travelling in comfort." Eric was tired, had a headache. This was going to bite him in the ass. It always did. The expense, the delay getting home. There would have been no issue over Clay and Trent leaving the plane, taking an alternate flight to a hospital ship, but the whole team? And he'd approved it. How the hell was he going to come up with an explanation for _that_!?

"Nah, would rather fly on a chopper in high winds to land on a ship where we can buffet on big waves."

"This is gonna cost us."

"Say what?"

"How?"

"Jason, your success rate ever falls..." Eric shook his head, began a conversation via his headset the others couldn't hear. He bet and bartered and dealt on Bravo's reputation and success rate to get what he wanted, keep the team out of trouble and explain away delays and expenses.

Ten minutes later, they were told they had to turn around, the eye of the storm was ahead and they couldn't fly through it or around it. The chopper, big and heavy as it was, was buffeting in the wind, making everyone queasy - Clay most of all. His visible struggle not to upchuck all over himself and just breathe was, despite the poor visibility and inability to hear, noticed by everyone.

Eric though, had some serious pull and the next thing they knew, they were landing on the deck of a nearby air craft carrier that offered both safety in the storm and a sick bay for Clay.

()()()

"Any idea why we're off course? I mean, we've stopped, haven't we?"

"Waiting for a chopper."

"None of ours are unaccounted for."

"Ain't one of ours."

"In this storm?"

"The hell? Out here?"

"Coming from where?"

"Holy Shit!" A fellow sailor careened across the floor, slid to a stop. "You're never going to believe this!" He babbled excitedly. "Guess what?! Just guess! I dare you! Bet you can't!"

"Chopper make it?"

"Why would we meet a chopper?"

"Obviously, it needed to land."

"Random choppers don't land on a U.S air craft carrier."

"You have any idea how hard it is to stop a ship this big?"

"Why us?"

"Why would we let it?"

"Really. The time? The cost? The delay?"

"Do you know what it takes to change coordinates? Deviate from a set course? Are we doing that?"

"Cap'ns gonna be pissed."

"Coast Guard of some country or another could have gotten it."

"Yeah, you don't divert an air carrier for a chopper."

"You do if the chopper is carrying a SEAL team!" Kevin was dancing, couldn't wait to impart the gossip. No one would ever top this.

Silence.

"No way."

"Those guys are ghosts."

"On a chopper?"

"Doubt it."

"If it's true, we won't see them."

"No one ever sees them."

"Right. They're heard of, talked about, but never seen."

"Hell, we wouldn't even know. Something like that wouldn't get out."

"They won't be on this level."

"Doubt it."

"Wardroom."

Kevin nudged in between two of the soldiers on the bench, sat down. He had everyone's attention and he wasn't going to fail them.

"I'm telling you, a chopper with a SEAL team on it landed on our deck. I was mopping on the Bridge when the orders came in. The chopper was headed towards one of the Naval Relief ships but the storm turned them back. They were going to return to land, but we were ordered to let them land."

"How do you know it was a SEAL team?"

"Because when the captain questioned why, he was told the chopper carried a multi-million dollar investment and their safety and security was top priority."

"You actually heard the words SEAL team?"

"Yes!"

A door at the far end of the cafeteria opened and one of the higher ranking officers entered the cafeteria.

The nine men gossiping at the table went silent. Officers of that rank rarely, if ever, entered this cafeteria unless it was an emergency. No bells or sirens or whistles or alerts had sounded or gone off, so all was well. Right?

"What the hell's he doing down here?"

The Officer was followed by a trio of large men dressed all in black. Behind them came a woman wearing camo. At her side was a dog.

"Fuck me!"

"Holy shit."

"Who the hell are they?"

"That who came on the chopper?"

"What are they doing down here?"

"Do you know who that is?"

"Should I?"

"Who?"

"The legendary Jason Hayes."

"Jay...no way! No one has ever seen him."

"How do you know that?"

"Yeah, his security level is so high above yours, you'd never see him even if you were stationed on the same base."

"I've seen his picture. Hell, we watch him in action when they show us films of missions."

"Don't much look like him."

"You think?"

"Never verified its him in the videos."

"That black man? Yeah, Ray Perry."

"Rumor says you never see one without the other."

"How do you know it's Ray Perry?"

"Only black man on Hayes' team."

"Don't they have some hot-shot sniper?"

"Yeah, young dude."

"Shit! What are they doing here?"

"Who's the other guy? Part of the team, you think?"

"He ain't so young."

"Might not be the sniper everyone talks about."

"They're here, 'cause their chopper landed on our deck asshole!"

"No, I mean, why here in our cafeteria."

"Uh, maybe they're hungry? They're human, you know. Gotta eat."

"Yeah, but they'd eat in the officer's quarters, the wardroom, not here."

"They don't mingle with us common men."

Everyone was staring. Openly staring. The dog was the only one to look around the room, make eye contact. A bowl was filled with water, put down for him to drink.

"Sonny, stop teasing the dog." Davis scolded. "Give him the...uh, is that stew? Soup? Maybe? No onions, right?" She asked the man ladling soup into bowls. He shook his head, the ability to speak beyond him. "Don't tell Brock." She told the dog, set a second bowl down. "And don't be messy."

"...sorry." The officer was telling Jason. "This is the only mess serving anything hot right now."

"Long as the food's hot, don't care where it's served." Jason accepted a bowl, set it on a tray. "Bread? Is that butter?"

"I smell coffee." Ray's nosed twitched. "Tell me it's brewed, not instant."

"Don't suppose you got a steak back there?" Sonny asked the man serving vegetables. The poor sailor shook his head. "Chicken pot pie?"

"Carrots, sir." The man - boy, really - stammered.

News, gossip, traveled fast aboard a ship, no matter its size. Anyone and everyone who was awake, no matter what level of the ship they were on, had heard the news about a chopper landing in the middle of a storm, bearing a SEAL team.

The carrot-serving boy swallowed hard, eyed Sonny nervously. This man could snap his neck before he'd be able to blink. Could knock him out cold and continue down the chow line. Would he, if he didn't like carrots?

Davis looked out over the room, saw seats at a nearby table that would accommodate everyone, for Brock and Trent would soon follow. Eric was on the phone again, but he too, would want something to eat. Mandy would undoubtedly be with him.

She saw the way everyone ducked, averted their gaze, then slowly started to stare again, grinned. No one would cat-call or whistle at her. Nope, no one would dare. The crew eating dinner this time of day, were young and new, one look from Jason and these kids would shit their pants.

"Steamed? Boiled?" Sonny grinned when the man's ears turned red.

Davis elbowed him in the side. "Jesus Sonny, you have him thinking you're going to snap his neck."

"Cooked, sir."

Sonny looked at the meager serving of carrots the boy ladled onto his plate.  "That's it?  I'm a big boy, not one of you waif-thin whippersnappers."

The boy added another heap.  Sonny stared.  A third heap was added.

"Stop teasing the boy and eat the damn carrots." Jason ordered. He was tired. Clay safely in the sick bay with the ships doctor and surgeon, he wanted to eat, shower, send his clothes to the laundry and go to bed.

They wouldn't be leaving this ship. They would remain on board until the ship reached its destination and Blackburn arranged for them to fly home from wherever the hell they ended up being put ashore.

Trent hadn't taken to the surgeon, but had formed an easy relationship with the doctor who was willing to listen to him regarding Clay, so long as Trent was happy and content that the kid would be treated right, Jason was okay with it.

How the chopper and its pilots were returned was someone else's problem, not Bravo's. Eric's though, probably, so Jason owed his Commander...well, something.

Sonny accepted the carrots because they were hot and right now, he wanted nothing more than hot food. His plate full, the tray bearing milk and dessert and water, he joined Ray at the table.

Activity was resuming in the room. Bravo was well aware of the effect they had on everyone but short of standing on a table and announcing, 'Yes, we're a SEAL team', there wasn't much they could do about it.

Kevin looked at the men at the table he sat with.

"See? See?"

"Looks like Hayes."

"And there's a black man with him."

"And his team has a dog."

"Not a woman though."

"She's Navy."

"Yeah, but what would she be doing with a SEAL team? If they were on a mission, she wouldn't have been with them."

"OH! Ohohohohoh! Lookit there!"

Brock walked in with Mandy.

"Their CIA spook, you think?"

"She has that agency look about her."

"He's one of them."

"That makes four. Aren't they usually a team of six?"

"That the sniper?"

There was no doubt who Eric was when he entered. People came to attention, saluted him, stood aside for him to pass.

"Christ, that's their Commander."

"What is he doing with them?"

"Why would he be?"

"Still only makes four."

Soon, all of Bravo was seated with dinner. Cerberus laid at Brock's feet, his ears pricked and his head came up.

"WOOF!"

And Trent led a sleepy, unsteady Clay into the room, directed him to the table where room was instantly made for him.

"There's the final two."

"Wow. That's the medic."

"The other one the sniper, you think?"

"Yeah, I don't think that's Hayes."

"Not a SEAL team neither, you never see them all together."

"He's definitely the leader."

"Doesn't make him Hayes."

"Yeah, just makes him the leader of these men."

"Still, a SEAL team though."

"Just not Hayes and his men."

Sonny got up to go with Trent to get the kid something to eat while Trent filled his own tray.

Clay's hands had been re-wrapped. He now had two fingers on his left hand exposed that could hold a spoon. He sat, head on the table in the crook of his arm while someone cut up the spaghetti and diced the meatballs into a size that would fit on the spoon.

"...not hungry..."

"Hey, I cut all this up, at least try it."

"You want it on your shoes?" Clay muffed into his arm. He was cold, damp, tired. Had wanted to stay in the sick bay and sleep but when Trent had said he was going to go get something to eat, Clay hadn't wanted to be left alone, so...here he was.

"You saying you're gonna flip a plate of food onto the floor in a tantrum?" Jason asked, tone a warning not to try such a thing.

"No." Clay mumbled. "Sayin' you make me eat it, gonna puke it."

"Anything sound good?" Mandy asked when no one else spoke up. "Crackers, maybe? Pudding?"

"...kind...of crackers?" He raised his head, chin resting on his forearm. He waited a minute, then awkwardly picked up the spoon, tried to maneuver a meatball onto it. Gave up, put the spoon down, picked up a fork, tried to stab one. "This...sucks."

"No more motion sickness?" Ray asked Trent.

"Patch is working."

"Don't they take, like, four hours or something?"

"Sometimes."

"Butterscotch, vanilla or chocolate." Mandy stood up. "Saltines, Ritz, cheese and peanut butter."

"The orange ones?" Clay sat up, tried to rub his eyes. His hands of no use, he rubbed his face against the nearest sleeve. "Okay."

Jason looked down with a sigh as Clay tried to itch his eyes with his sleeve. "You done?"

"What's that?" Clay eyed the buttered roll that Jason held, reached for it but it was too fat to grab with two fingers that were bound together and could only separate a mere space.

Jason quirked an eyebrow at Trent who grinned back. "You drug him?"

"What makes you think that?" He teased. "Mild." He assured his boss. "He's fighting it, but it'll put him down. We all need some sleep."

Clay slumped against him, cheek on his bicep. Jason rolled his eyes, held the roll for Clay to take a bite.

"You mean, like now?" Ray laughed, finished his soup, wiped the bowl with a roll.

"Why isn't he in the sick bay?" Eric asked tiredly. He was finished eating, was ready for bed. He'd be sharing a room with the girls, their safety more important than his rank or status.

"You try and leave him there."

"You will return him, right?"

"Yes." Jason said firmly, felt Clay stir against him in protest. "Uh, someone will stay until he falls asleep."  So, if Clay couldn't grab hold and hang on with his hands, he'd lay on you. Huh, good to know.

"Won't take long."

Clay, fed crackers, meatballs, bites of bread and spoonfuls of pudding by various people, finally fell asleep, passed out, succumbed to the sedative.

They left him with his head on his folded arms on the table until they were finished eating, cleared the table, threw away their trash, returned their dishes.

"Who wants to carry him?" Brock asked, hands on hips.

"No one is slinging him upside down,"  warned Sonny.

"Get his feet Ray." Jason grabbed an arm, juggled Clay's weight against his chest. "Lead the way Trent."

Everyone watched the men in black carry one of their own from the cafeteria and disappear through a door they were forbidden to use unless there was an emergency.

"Well, that settles it. No way that was Hayes."

"Yeah, you're right. No way he'd do something like that."

"Bummer, was kinda hoping it was."

Headed towards a different door, Lisa and Mandy passed by Kevin and the others on their way out.

"Evening ma'am." Kevin offered politely when Lisa made eye contact.

"Evening," She returned with a smile. Impressed with the behavior of the sailors in the cafeteria, she said so.

"Thank you ma'am."

"If you don't mind me asking...was that...is... I mean...was that a SEAL team?"

"It was." She whispered with a wink.

"Could you tell us which one?"

She shared a look with Mandy, then returned her gaze to Kevin, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Bravo." She gave a little wave. "Night boys." She and Mandy left with Cerberus.

"Bravo?"

"Sonofabitch! That _was_ Hayes!"

"WOW!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Gave. Me. Fits...
> 
> Ugh.
> 
> Not my comfort zone...can ya tell?

 

"Wait, you said seven figures?" Emma questioned. "Really?"

"Yeah, well, we know where you get your expensive tastes from and it isn't from your mother." Brock grinned.

"So, like, a million dollars?" She guessed.

"Millions. Plural." Eric corrected. "Multiple. Your daddy ain't cheap kiddo."

"Okay, yeah...but...wow." She paused. "He was okay, so...your cancelled flight, your aborted flight, your delayed return via ship was...for nothing?"

"Can't take chances with him."

"Can't guess either."

"We had no way of knowing."

"Better with a doctor and available medication than winging it on a military transport."

Emma tilted her head up. "Dad?"

"He's work." Jason admitted. "But his skill, his talent? His loyalty? Not letting that go."

"Doesn't handle loss well." Sonny commented. "Takes a bit to pull it together."

"But he does." Ray countered, Sonny nodded in agreement.

"He's quick, he's smart and there ain't a person here whose life he hasn't somehow saved at one time or another." Jason finished. "Yeah, he's worth the headache."

"Hey how's that beer?" Lisa called out, decided it was time for a change in subject. "What'cha think Emma?"

"Don't really see your attraction to it." The teenager admitted with a nose wrinkle. "Kinda...blah."

"What?"

"Here now!"

"Blasphemy!"

"Jason, Alana play you false?"

"It's cheap."

"There's bottled, canned, draft, brewed..."

"It's frothy and frosty and foamy."

"I'd rather have, erhm, try a wine cooler." Emma covered hastily. "Or one of those hard lemonade's..."

Horrified, six grown men and one woman yelped. _**"NO!"**_

Clay continued to sleep.

_***Clay has a wine cooler***_

Jason was dirty, sweaty, tired, hungry, pissed off and all-round beat. He didn't have time for this shit. He wanted this beaming asshole gone. This robe-wearing, sandal-footed, camel jockey needed to get out of his face. He wanted to go to bed and this dude was preventing him from doing so, so yeah, right now, he was the enemy and Jason saw fit to treat him as such.

He'd just come off an overnight shift watching a warehouse for suspicious activity and movement - news flash, there hadn't been any - and was ready to take a shower, because all the sand in every crease of skin made him itch, when an MP had come to notify him he had a visitor.

 _"Chief Hayes? Sir."_  
_"What? Go away."_  
_"You have a visitor Sir."_  
_"I have a what?" said Jason stupidly. "Yeah, no I don't."_

_He didn't get visitors. Bravo didn't get visitors. The base didn't get visitors. Not over here. And though their quarters and barracks were secluded from the rest of the base, they were approachable at meals or in the activity areas - so no, no visitors._

_"At the front gate, Sir."_

Front gate, his ass.

Apparently the arrival of a white limousine bearing some kind of state or diplomatic flag or tag or sticker, and accompanied by an entourage riding camels gained its occupant immediate admittance to the visitor's center on the base.

Who the fuck even knew the base had a visitor center!? Not Jason.

"Allow me to introduce myself." The man dressed in robes and a head covering - silk robes - bowed. "I am Sheikh Ramzi Bin Atef..."

"Yeah, yeah, Chef Boy Rice-a-Roni." Jason said impatiently, shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Sultan or prince of Bon appetite, right? Whatever. I get it. State your business and be on your way."

"I wish to negotiate a transaction between you and meself." The sheikh droned on, not at all put off by Jason's rudeness. "...I am here..." blah, blah, blah. "...the person I should conduct my business with, yes?" He waited expectedly for a reply. He spoke good English but all Jason heard was a foreign language because not one god-damn word coming out of this biblical relic's mouth made any fucking sense. "...good, good, now then..." yadda, yadda, yadda. "...is your price?" And he beamed happily at Jason.

Jason simply could not wrap his head around who this idiot was and what he wanted. Oh, he heard him, (his voice, the words) he just couldn't _hear_ him (understand what the fuck he was saying, what the words meant).

"I'm sorry, say that again. You want to what?"

Jason felt like he needed to knock his head repeatedly against the heel of his hand, slap the sand right out of his ears, 'cause...

"As I was saying, I wish to negotiate. On my honor, he will live a life of leisure..."

"Who will?"

"...will want for nothing." The sheikh continued as if Jason hadn't interrupted. "His life will be comfortable, he will never know pain or cold or hunger, only pleasure. Everything he needs will be provided. Everything he wants, will be considered and most likely granted." He paused. "Although he will be restricted to the palace grounds, he will never live outside."

"Say what?"

"Of course, he will, at first, be confined to one room while he is trained. And since he's a, shall we say, house gift for my bevy of beauties, he will be required to..."

"He's a what?"

"He will be fed, housed, clothed, educated. A masseur, a trainer, a physician, chef will be dedicated to him."

"Come again?"

"I have nine wives, seventeen daughters and thirteen ladies in, well, can call it a harem, I suppose." The sheikh waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. "Though please, do not insult me with that yesterday definition of harem. So silly." He shook his head. "Women! They do bore easily, do they not? Do you agree? And oh me, they like to shop. How many shoes can one woman wear? I ask and yet, no one can explain." Dramatically, he put the back of his hand to his forehead. "And then...and then!...they go around barefoot all the time! Now, I say, does that make sense to you? I think not."

"What?"

"And when they buy new shoes, they need a new pocket book to match." He shook his head. "Aah, well now, I ramble. Where were we? Money is no issue, I buy them their hearts desire and they desire a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle. I would like to buy him."

"You wanna do what?"

"I will pay. My lovely's always get what they desire. They want him, so..." He spread his hands, shrugged as if to say; ah, the whims of females. What's a man to do? "I'm here to offer you a fair price."

"Buy who?"

"Name your price."

"My what?"

"I don't expect him to be cheap. I," he pointed to his chest. " Pay you," he pointed to Jason. "Well for him."

"You'll do what?"

"Very well, I'll start the bidding. Three million."

"Dollars?"

"American dollars. More then? Five million."

"How much?"

"I'm prepared to bargain with you until I get what I came here for." The sheikh said patiently. "Thirty-nine women! I tell you, one must keep them busy, occupied or you shall lose your mind. This purchase should keep them entertained for the summer."

"Ray!"

"Shall we sit down, have a drink?"

"RAY!"

"I see you're going to drive a hard bargain." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I do like a challenge. Seven."

_**"RAY!"** _

"Of course, I will give you a receipt. I must insist you sign a bill of sale. Would you prefer cash, check or wire transfer?"

"Would I what?"

The sheikh sighed. "My wives, my daughters, my ladies, they have everything they want...clothes, jewels, cars, yachts, planes, houses, a palace...I say to meself, what can I give them? What would they like? What can I give my lovely's that no one else has?! Ah-ha, I say, they lack a...pet." He shook his head sadly. "They are not fond of camels. Can you imagine? And those little yappy dogs?'' He rolled his eyes. "Worthless creatures. They adore their horses of course, but they are not well suited to our climate." He clapped his hands. "Nine."

"Lack a what?"

"He will be well cared for. He will eventually have unlimited access to the palace grounds; pool, tennis courts, movie theater. He will not be expected to work. His only duty will be to satisfy my lovely's. Fulfill their desires, their fantasies. If he chooses, he can breed..."

_**"RRAAYY!"** _

"He is very polite, well-mannered, respectful, speaks our language, doesn't drink your nasty American beer, enjoys the fruity taste most of my lovely's prefer. He will be easy to feed, easy to please, easy to keep." The sheikh wasn't getting that Jason was about to throw him through a wall. "My oldest wife, also my dearest, mind you, for she bore me my first son, she saw him at the restaurant. She was attracted to him right away because he wasn't drinking your horrid hops. Blah! Blah, I say! Terrible taste."

"What?"

"And he treated her very well. Not like other men treat women. And then he spoke to her in her language. Is that not a sign she is meant to have him? Do you not think so?"

"Do I think what?"

"Now, yes, yes, I admit." The sheikh shook his head. "This younger generation, nothing like in my day. They, my daughters, are quite bold and forward. Don't know where they get it from. Not me. TV, I say. Worst invention I allowed into the palace."

"Huh?"

"Or perhaps it is this on-line chat business. Why, the images they show me!" His hand covered his heart, fanned his face with the other. "They wish to try what they see. There are many men among the help or from the village willing to participate, but they lack, uh, stamina."

**_"RRAAYY!"_ **

"They do like their toys. Oh, they like to tease." He tsk-tsked, clicked his tongue. "Such an infatuation with ribbons and ropes and silk strings and scarves, but I assure you, they will do him no harm. No, no. Their mothers will keep them in line."  He blushed. _BLUSHED!_ "They are required to keep their activities and proclivities and," now he frowned, grimaced, "their unnatural desires to either their bedrooms or the playroom."

**_"RRAAAAAAAYY!"_ **

"I had to have a room converted, did you know? I simply could not have these...these...things, these items strewn about the palace. And, oh me, if one takes him to their bedroom, the tantrum from the others drives a man right from his house!"

Jason fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands. This. Was. Not. Happening.

_**"RAY?! RAY? RRAAYY?! "** _

"Now, not all the daughters are so territorial." Clueless, the sheikh continued. "Some share quite well. Oh, there is the seventh daughter, she is quite the handful, but don't you worry, he will never feel the lash of a whip. No sir, that sort of violence is forbidden in all my houses." He paused, looked thoughtful. "Though, well, there is wife number five, so, if he misbehaves while she is watching him, he will very likely feel the sting of a paddle."

_**"AAUUGGH! RRRRAAAAYYYY!"** _

Ray skidded around the corner, wearing a towel, shampoo in his hair, soap in his beard. He'd been fetched from the shower by some dude who urged him to make haste to his Chief's side because that Chief was in the visitor's center, bellowing louder than a bull with a rubber band wrapped around its balls.

The base had a visitor's center?

" _What_? Jesus Jason, you'd better be dying..." He pulled up short, clutched his towel, stared at the sheikh. "What the?" He spun around, immediately assessed the situation, looked for a threat. "Who - what - the hell is that?" No one appeared to be armed...wait, was that a camel looking through the window?

"I am..."

"You have company." Ray turned to Jason, quirked a lip into a grin. "You're entertaining? Is there champagne?"

"Not funny Ray."

"Kinda funny."

"Kinda not." Jason was finally beginning to process the situation. The sheikh was serious. "Where's Clay?"

Because it had to be Clay. What other blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle had been out of his sight?

"In his bunk."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, he...what?"

"Sultan Oman Baboon here wishes to pay me nine..."

"Eleven." The sheikh interjected. He didn't correct Jason on his title or name.

"...million dollars for our blonde-haired, blue-eyed man of muscle."

"Am I on camera? I'm on camera, right? I'm being filmed, aren't I?" Ray turned in a circle, waved. "Come on out guys! HaHa, good joke." He bent over, ass to the air. "Anyone wanna see a moon?" He played with his towel, flipped it suggestively.

"Ray," Jason began.

"Who is this man? I do not like him." The sheikh waved a hand and several men twice the size of Jason stepped forward, were in Ray's face. "You can go away, I don't wish to deal with..." He looked down his nose, sniffed in disdain. "With men who display their attributes in such a public display."

"Jay, this guy serious?"

"Get Blackburn."

Ray's grin faded. He closed his towel. Jason's tone...his face...his look...his set jaw, his glittering eyes...caused Ray to bolt and everyone on base was treated to the sight of a muscular, fit, naked black man running like the hounds on hell were on his heels across the base covered in drying soap suds, clutching a towel around his waist, bellowing _ **' ERIC'** _at the top of his lungs.

()()()

Clay woke with a groan...his tongue was thick, his mouth dry. He kept his eyes closed, their lids too heavy to lift, as he futilely attempted to work saliva into his mouth. Nope, throat not cooperating.

Well, alrighty then. Next.

He stirred, moved his hands, then his feet, an attempt to gain knowledge by feeling. Huh, his feet were bare, where were his boots? He lowered a hand, raised his foot, neither movement was restricted, but both were an effort that left him panting.

His hand confirmed his foot was bare. Huh. Not good, right? Couldn't be good. Was never good.

He laid still, waited. His bearings and senses and thoughts slowly filtered round and sorted themselves into the process for which they were meant.

Nose - spices, incense, perfume. So, he wasn't in the barracks.  
Ears - soft music, no words, neither country nor rock, nothing he was used to, so not Bravo.  
Hands/Feet - sheets, mattress(?), able to move freely. Not tied up or down or to anything.  
Skin - cool, not sunburned, not sensitive. He wasn't in pain, he was comfortable.  
Eyes - not yet working.  
Memory - faulty.  
Tongue - fat, thick, dry. It wanted water.  
Lips - dry.

Overall, he counted himself fortunate. Though perhaps his team would have something to say about it, would think differently.

Jason - So help me Spenser, I'm really going to thrash you this time.  
Sonny - God Dammit kid, the hell you do now?  
Ray - Again? Really, this is getting old.  
Brock - You okay?  
Trent - I warned you last time, you made me come after you, you weren't going to like it, I got you back.  
Eric - How much is whatever the hell happened to him this time, going to cost me?  
Davis - They're old men Clay, give them a break. They can't keep up with you.  
Cerberus - kisses.

Okay, then, think.

Clay relaxed into the depths of the pillows, tilted his head towards the gentle breeze that drifted across his face.

Bravo had been on shifts, observing comings and goings from a warehouse. Ray and Jason had relieved Clay and Brock. Brock had returned to base but Clay had gone out for dinner, and that's where he should still be...so, why wasn't he?

Had he gone home with some woman from the bar? Why couldn't he remember? No wait...the last thing he remembered was...um...he'd been sitting at the bar, drinking a grape flavored wine cooler...a woman had approached him to compliment his choice of beverage, and trying to be polite, he'd thanked her in her language...

He blinked and saw multiple 'I Dream of Jeanie's' in a vary of pastel colors.

Oh-oh.

He was offered something to drink. He raised his head to meet the glass, drank greedily, went back to sleep.

()()()

"With all due respect, you cannot buy an American Citizen." Eric said firmly. "It is not done."

"But my lovely's want him. I will pay you handsomely. Thirteen million American dollars."

Eric blinked. For Clay?!

"He is not ours to sell." Eric shook his head. "I'm sorry, this meeting is over. We will accompany you to your home and you will immediately release him from your, uh, you will give him back."

Jason could not stand still. He paced, shifted his weight from hip to hip, turned in a circle, paced. He dealt with risks and odds, danger and violence, decisions that were life and death, but he didn't negotiate. Oh, it'd been in his training, he knew how to do it, but he rarely had to draw upon that talent. Good thing too, 'cause it was a talent he lacked. Blackburn though, excelled at it.

"NO!" Eric barked.

Okay, maybe not so much.

Eric, filled in by Ray what little he'd known, had arrived alone. Ray had returned to barracks, convinced Clay was sleeping in his bunk. He'd intended to drag Clay out of bed and produce him to Jason, prove once and for all this sheikh business was bullshit, because when Ray had looked into the room, he swore he'd seen both Brock and Clay, asleep in the top bunks.

He hadn't.

He'd seen only Brock and no amount of pillow flinging, blanket pulling, mattress throwing tantrums produced Clay.

So, no, he didn't get to prove anything to Jason.

He'd been getting dressed, filling Brock in, kicking himself for letting Clay out of his sight, when Sonny and Trent had walked in. They'd relieved Ray and Jason but surveillance on the warehouse had ended when the target they were after had been apprehended. Support had remained and now, here the four of them stood behind Jason and watched their Commander control the situation.

"My lovely's will not part with him willingly." The sheikh warned somberly.

"They will have no choice." Eric stated. "You cannot keep him captive or imprisoned or in, uh, your custody."

Ray sputtered, "Is he serious?" He looked around, stomach in a knot. "He's serious. Tell me this is a joke."

"What man over here lets his 'bevy of beauties' walk all over him?" Brock muttered. "Like this?"

"Fifteen million." The sheikh was beginning to believe these men were serious and he would not be obtaining the hunky blue-eyed man his lovely's wanted. "You drive a hard bargain sir. I only wish to make my lovely's happy."

"You can't have him." Eric repeated. "No amount of money's gonna make me let you keep him."

"I got two fists and a wicked right jab to counter that offer." Sonny spat.

"Here now! There is no call for the threat of violence." The sheikh drew himself up, wrapped his robes securely around him. "This is a peaceful negotiation. I have threatened harm to no one."

"Okay, again." Trent said. "One more time. You want to 'buy' Clay because your harem thinks he's pretty to look at?"

"Harem?" Sonny turned. "He has a harem? Wait."

"Oh, not yesterdays definition." Jason spoke up. His head had split in two. "Nine wives, seventeen daughters, thirteen ladies."

"A harem can't contain daughters." Sonny frowned. "That there is just sick."

"Apparently, harems have, uh, evolved." Eric said. Jason was looking ill.

"Enough." Brock stood up, Cerberus padded in.

"Now, that is a dog!" The sheikh crowed admiringly. "I will buy him."

"You will not." Brock snapped. "And no amount of money will make Clay available for purchase either. Let's go tell your harem that they can't have what they want this time."

"Very well." The sheikh knew he had lost. These men - and more kept showing up - were growing agitated and angry and it was now obvious no amount of money would entice them to part with the man currently held by his lovely's. He would graciously admit defeat, go home and have his retainers and aides hop on that internet thing and find him a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man with muscles who was willing to accept a lot of money to become a house pet for his lovely's. There had to be one somewhere.

()()()

Clay wasn't uncomfortable. He was warm and relaxed and sleepy, nestled among soft blankets, spongy cushions and flimsy pillows. Someone fed him grapes. Someone fanned him by hand with a bamboo fan. Someone rubbed his feet. Someone(s) massaged creams and oils and lotions into his shoulders, chest, stomach, arms, hands. Someone brushed his hair. Soft music played. He heard soft bells, clinks of beads and bracelets. Incense filled the air.

He was calm and serene and...tied to rings buried amid the pillows and cushions with silk scarves. When had that happened? He was beginning to think these ladies were somehow keeping him addled.

Thankfully, he wore a pair of loose pants made of light-weight material, that had he been standing and walking, would have been obscene.

He couldn't count how many women were in the room. He tried, but nope, there were too many and they kept moving and not only did they all look alike, they were all dressed alike.

The older women sat and chatted, looked adoringly at the younger girls as they played with his hair and hands and toes and rubbed and tickled and massaged.

A time or two, a hand strayed to the strings on the pants but a cluck or a jangle of bracelets from the seated ladies across the room aborted the attempt.

He was forbidden to speak, had been threatened with a gag - a silk scarf sure, but still a gag - when he ignored the warnings, so he had obeyed and stayed silent. He was in no immediate danger, so he didn't press his luck. He had time.

And apparently, not all of them realized he could understand every word they were saying. Though, with so many all talking at the same time, he had trouble following all the conversations, so he gave up.

"Can we keep him?"

"Did Papa say we could?"

"Do we get to?"

"Papa's been gone a long time."

"I'm oldest, he gets to stay with me first."

"I'm Papa's favorite, I get him first."

"I want to play with him too!"

"The ladies will have him first."

"We wives get the first opportunity to welcome him."

"Momma, can we not take him for a walk?"

Clay was afraid to succumb and go to sleep, afraid what he might find when he woke up. Now, if he shook his head, or flinched or tensed or drew away - as much as the soft restraints allowed - the girls stopped what made him uncomfortable. But damn, they were getting bolder and even the older women were eyeballing him eagerly.

Anytime now guys.

"When can we give him a bath?"

Clay swallowed. Bath?

"Can we shave him?"

Yeah, it better be his beard they were walking about!

"Do you think we could put bells on him?"

He gulped. Bells? Where? Men didn't, uh, wear bells!

"Papa's back!"

Clay was abandoned by everyone as the women either rushed from the room or crowded together at the windows. He took the opportunity to tug at the scarves binding his arms and legs to the rings. Though, there was slack, they didn't pull loose. Huh, it might not be as easy as Clay had thought it would be to get free. He didn't wish to hurt any of the women, but neither did he intend to remain here.

There was a commotion, squeals, giggles, greetings, silence. Then the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairwell and finally, the door opened and Blackburn and Jason entered.

Clay blinked, lips curving into a smile.

Ray, Sonny, Trent and Brock pushed in behind them and their presence dominated the room.

His head supported on soft pillows, his hands tied a comfortable distance from his ears, he decided to go with humor to hide his embarrassment.

"Hey guys." He gave a limp waggle of his fingers on his right hand. "Anyone want some grapes?"

()()()

"Clay?" Trent sat down next to him, bumped shoulders. "Hey, not asking for details, just...and it will go no further than me, 'less...well, depends on what you answer."

Clay turned to look at him, toweling his hair dry after its third washing. It was a new towel, and still, he smelled the oils and lotions...ugh...would it ever wash out completely or would he have to shave his head?

"Any need for a STD test?" Trent asked quietly, gently. He stared ahead, unsure how at ease Clay would be to such, uh, prodding. "You need Doc? He..."

"No." Clay hid a grin. It wasn't often one saw Trent ill at ease. Blood, puke, piss, shit, missing limbs, protruding bone, hole in chest, intestines outside the body, brain fluid leaking out a nose, the medic didn't bat an eye. Sex? Well, now...

"You sure? No...little blue-eyed terrors in anyone's immediate future?"

Now Clay's eyes widened. Good God! Just how long had he been held by seventeen daughters and a harem anyway? It'd only been hours! One afternoon! Just what did his team think he was capable of accomplishing in one afternoon!?

"Trent, I'm good." Clay said quietly. Embarrassed? Sure. Humiliated? You betcha. Hide anything from the team over something like this? Not a chance. "If it would make you feel better, you can take me to see Doc when we land."

"It would." Trent was quiet.

He remembered Sonny cutting through the scarves tying Clay to the mound of pillows and cushions. They hadn't given way easily, which pissed Sonny off, which made Brock reprimand him for being rough, which caused Ray to snap at them both.

The ladies had realized they weren't going to be able to keep their gift and after tears and foot-stomping and ranting, they'd taken to throwing things at Eric who their father told them was responsible for them being unable to keep their pet.

Trent and Jason had helped Clay up, but the cushions were not steady and Clay had staggered, his knees weak. It was like they were all on a trampoline and Clay had been oily and slippery and they hadn't been able to hold onto him, so Jason had slung him over a shoulder and whatever Clay had been given to keep him compliant made hanging upside down turn his stomach.

Clay had slipped right off and over Jason's shoulder, the ladies had pounced and six men against thirty-nine women fighting over one, oiled-up slippery semi-conscious prize had been a free for all.

Finally, Eric had lost his temper and started throwing pillows back at the women. That mere action had caused a lull in the activity from all the women and he'd snagged a blanket, tossed it over Clay and Jason had been able to pick him up and keep a hold of him.

"I'm good." Clay attempted to assure Trent, but all of a sudden, for no known reason, he began to shake.

Trent stood up, moved away, returned with a blanket. Where and how he had magically produced a blanket, Clay didn't know, but he didn't shrug away from its comfort when Trent draped it around his shoulders and gave him a hug, chin on his damp, smelly head.

"You reek." Trent said after a bit. Nerves? Relief? Shock? He was confident Clay hadn't thrown a reaction to whatever they'd given him, so didn't panic over the sudden shaking.

"There ain't a place they didn't rub in oil or lotion or cream." Clay said, voice muffled. "Told Davis Dial soap isn't cutting it."

"Yeah, she's getting you some Dawn and a herbal soap. We'll get it off."

"We flying out soon?"

"Uh yeah, Ray's talking Jason down. Brock's telling Sonny all the reasons why he can't shoot a rocket launcher at the palace and Blackburn has Mandy on, uh, who this sheikh is he could offer 15 million in cash for you."

"Sorry about Sonny."

"His actions ain't on you."

"Kinda seems like it is." Clay shrugged, ran a hand through his hair, grimaced when his fingers came away greasy. "He gets on you, you make a decision about me, he doesn't like."

Trent grinned, chucked the kid under the chin. "You forget, I've known Sonny a lot longer. I've run more ops with his mouth and his moods. Wouldn't be the first time he's constipated for a week." He laughed as Clay's eyes widened. "Or has explosive shits."

"Okay, never gonna piss you off." His shoulders slumped and he sagged against Trent's chest and into the security of his hug. "Just...wanna go home."

"Hey," Trent tightened his hug. "Not letting you outta our sights 'til we land and Stella picks you up, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks."

* * *

**Sorry, not taking the time to learn the (or a) language and translate, so go with it people, just pretend the ladies were speaking their native language.


	5. Chapter 5

"So..." Emma paused. "He was kidnapped..."

"The sheikh preferred 'borrowed'."

"...because he was drinking a wine cooler when the sheikh's wife saw him?"

"Some fucking obscure country in the middle of the damn desert, they only come to town, like twice a year and they just happen to be there the same day Clay decides to drink a wine cooler." Sonny scowled. "I'm telling you, his luck sucks!"

"So she...they...the women...wanted a sex toy?"

"Hey! Here now." Jason moved so quick, Emma didn't have a chance to duck. He clapped a hand over her mouth. "You don't know such words."

"Dnfd." She pulled his hand away. "I'm 18 Dad, yeah I know the meaning of such words. Mom and I read all the Fifty Shades of Grey books."

"Aaah! Boss, your little girl is growing up!" Davis laughed, high-fived Emma. "Making your daddy blush Ems!"

"His good luck! He finds the one man on the entire continent who was not brutal or sadistic towards women." Eric argued. "And he returned Clay without a fight."

"Not like they could have kept him for long." Ray pointed out. "He has the skills to escape confinement."

"Might have taken him a couple days." Trent said. "Whatever herb or spice they gave him to keep him asleep, would have eventually ceased to be effective."

"But oh, they didn't want to give him back."

"The Chinese did."

"Fucking Delta."

 _***The Chinese don_ _'t want to play with_ _Clay***_

The mud wasn't as firm as Clay wished it. Oh, he knew it was spongy and unpredictable - it was _mud_ \- but he had wished it firm and solid, so wah-lah, he expected it to be.

Fail.

Great. Just Fucking Great.

All his weeks, months, years, in training, being schooled, the assessment process, BUDS and Green Team and every other school, training, exercise and conditioning program he'd been put through - and passed - none of it covered what the hell to do when you ordered nature to cooperate and it didn't.

Bravo was supposed to fly home in the morning. They were off deployment. Delta had arrived, and Bravo's duty was done.

And where was Clay?

Sprawled on his belly, face first in a mud hole in a fucking steaming tropical forest full of dense bamboo and vegetation.

Ugh.

It was Jason's fault: The boss, tired and cross and unable to take it out on anyone, had taken the night off, departed and scattered the team so he could sulk and wallow alone.

It was Ray's fault: With Jason in the wind, Ray was in command and Ray agreed to Mandy's request to let Clay go out on recon with Delta. He'd shot down Brock's suggestion they call Jason, pooh-poohed Trent's concern Clay shouldn't be tromping through the jungle without them and put them both firmly in their place when they'd outright stated Delta had no business taking Clay anywhere.

It was Sonny's fault: Involved in a prank war with one another, Sonny had frayed the laces in Clay's boots. They'd finally snapped and Clay hadn't been able to prevent himself from tumbling head-over-ass-over-heels down a foliage-covered hill. He'd somehow caught his ankle up in a vine and his head-first plummet had come to a sudden halt with such a jar, he'd been turned right side up and he'd yelped at the pain to flair from his hip. He'd used his knife to cut himself free and slide feet-first the rest of the way to the bottom.

Bruised and sore, but grateful he hadn't suffered any serious injury, he'd had to unlace both boots and tie the laces together best as he could. That delay as well as the unexpected fall had put him further behind the team than anyone had anticipated him being.

Damn Sonny!

Well, to be fair, Sonny hadn't expected Clay to be sent out on a night hike mere hours after returning from one with Bravo. He'd planned for the laces to snap while Clay was running or working out or just walking to the cafeteria to eat.

And he hadn't been around when Ray had sent him out with Delta.

Jason was going to throw a fucking fit when he found out where Clay was because for some reason unknown only to Clay, the guys - aside from Ray - didn't like letting him out of their sights. That joke was getting old and he hoped it wore out soon and the guys moved on to something else.

He wouldn't want to be Ray 'cause Jason was going to light him up.

He and Sonny were both in for one hell of a reprimand as well. And Davis would likely catch shit too, she hadn't packed extra laces in either his back pack or vest pockets.

But then again...NO ONE HAD EXPECTED CLAY TO BE BACK OUT ON PATROL!

It was Mandy's fault: The only reason Clay was out here was because he spoke Chinese and Delta wanted to prove to Bravo they were the better team by gaining confirmation the target they were looking for was indeed here. Dunno know what sense that made. Duh, Clay was Bravo, but Mandy wanted the confirmation bad enough she would take the wrath of Jason. He'd get over it, forgive her, he always did, but it would be a tense flight home.

It was Blackburn's fault: The Lieutenant Commander needed to grab his balls and stand up to the toothpick in pants and tell her no. Though to be fair, Eric was out corralling Jason and returning him to base, so he hadn't known about Mandy's request either.

He was getting mighty sick and tired of being used because of his ability to speak several languages. He had an idea his team was beginning to resent him for it and he didn't know how to handle it, deal with it, or get around it.

He pushed to his knees, sat back on his heels. Holy hell...that didn't feel good. Once he'd tied his boots, he'd been faced with two options - well, three.

1) Climb back up the hill.  
2) Navigate the mud.  
3) Swim.

He'd opted for number two, his left leg had given out as soon as he'd put weight on it and here he sat.

Suddenly, he didn't feel so good.

He swallowed, spit mud, felt hot. He tried to take a deep breath, panted, his eyes rolled and he collapsed onto his side.

'I'm so fucked', was his last conscious thought.

()()()

Ray heard the raised voices from the room down the hall but he didn't put a pep in his step. Not even the thump, whump, bang, boom caused him to hasten his pace. The following thud, crash and blam made him miss a step but nope, still didn't run.

He opened the door to complete and utter chaos - instinctively ducked when a chair skidded across the room.

The largest table in the center of the room was cleared, papers and files and folders were strewn all over the floor. Cups were split, donuts had been scattered, chairs were over-turned, the smaller tables were bumped apart, remained askew. Hell, even computers and phones and radios hadn't escaped destruction.

The hell?

By the looks of Delta's Chief, blows had already happened. Jason was man-handled by Full Metal and some random dude in the room and Eric remained between Jason and the Delta dipshit, trying to make Jason see reason.

"...because if that ain't how it is, trust me, it will be." Jason was yelling. Ray winced. "I'm not gonna be happy until you're in traction with a tube up your dick and a nurse holding your head so you can drink your meal from a straw!"

"What's going on?" Ray asked, expected someone to answer, no one did. "Anyone?"

"...I will nail you by your toes off the roof of the tallest building I find when they let me get my hands on you." Jason ranted. "Your only thought will be what will kill you first. Your toes ripping free of the nails or death by the blood pooling in your skull…. " He lunged when Delta's chief shot back a reply, men moved to separate them.

Ray wondered why Sonny wasn't doing more to help Eric talk Jason down. It was going to take days to coax Jason into a mood where he wouldn't want to test his theory that dumbass team leaders had hollow bones and the ability to fly.

Sonny hunched a shoulder. He looked at Ray, shrugged.

"Jason came through the door, fists flying."

"Where is she?" Jason asked Eric, pushing and slapping his way out of the arms halfheartedly restraining him. "Where is she Blackburn?"

"She has ISR up and..."

"Pull her off!" Jason ordered. He spun in a circle, hands in his hair. "Put Davis on it."

"Jason..." Eric began.

"What has his panties in a twist?" Ray asked, was ignored.

"I'm going in there Blackburn and I don't want to see her." Jason ducked another attempt to grab him. "So help me, I'll put her through the wall."

Shocked, Ray shouted. "JASON!" Violence to a woman on base? In Command? Not even talk about it would be tolerated. "That's enough!" He pushed between Jason and Eric. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

Jason immediately shrugged away from Ray, turned his back.

Ray looked at Eric. "Blackburn? You just gonna stand there, let this go on?" He reached again for Jason.

"I'm done!" Jason threw his hands up, his arms out, effectively warded Ray off. "I've had it! No more! Do you hear me? What do I have to do? Who do I have to go to Blackburn? Tell me who! Or so help me, I'm laying waste to every desk and door until I reach whoever the hell is going to put a stop to other teams taking that kid whenever they damn well please!"

"Jay..." Eric began.

"Don't! Don't even! DO NOT EVEN try and blow me off! Not this time. Not again!"

"I've already started the process." Eric raised his voice. "NOW CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"

"What's going on?" Ray asked Sonny as Jason and Eric erupted into an epic shouting match.

Randy, seated at the one remaining operating computer, pointed across the room to Delta's Chief who was nursing a split lip with a towel.

"They went out on routine patrol. Asked Mandy if she'd send Spenser with them since he speaks Chinese."

"Shit." Ray muttered under his breath. He knew what was coming next.

"They came back without him."

And there it was. Confirmation. Ray clasped his hands together behind his neck. Judged the distance between himself and Sonny, wisely stepped out of striking distance.

Sonny noticed his silence, looked over, frowned.

"Ray Perry, what did you do?" Sonny asked accusingly.

"I sent him." Ray confessed. "Told him he had to go."

Sonny stared.

"He disobeyed my orders yesterday." Ray argued defensively. "Jason makes him run, big whoop. So...thought his punishment should be something different." Ray went silent, gave a shrug. "It was recon Sonny."

Sonny was quiet. He understood that any Tier One team, regardless how they felt about each other personally, would execute their mission and duties professionally. But Bravo was still learning their way with their danger magnet who found trouble wherever he went and letting him out of their sights to run with another team didn't sit well with any of them.

Well, maybe Ray.

Sonny turned his back, walked away, left Ray staring after him.

Jason made missteps with the kid all the time. Same with Blackburn, but let Ray do it, and the team wouldn't speak to him for a week - maybe a month, depending on how bad this shit-show went.

Despite what some people thought - snicker - he wasn't hard on Spenser because the kid was a hot-shot sniper. He was hard on him because he was arrogant and cocky and Bravo wouldn't be his team forever.

Ugh.

He breathed in, held it, blew it out. Repeated. Okay, time to face Jason.

But, oh, Jason wanted nothing to do with Ray. Oh yeah, Trent - _Trent!_ \- had called to tell him Clay was back out on patrol with Delta - and wasn't Ray going to have a word with Trent about that! He'd told the medic and the dog-handler there was no need to notify Jason. It should have occurred to him they would have disregarded his orders and done so anyway, but it hadn't and he'd walked into this blind.

"This is on you Ray! Get out of my face!" Jason shouted. "How could you do something like that? Why? No, don't try and explain, I don't want to hear it."

"Because it is completely acceptable to send the rookie out on a routine patrol with another team." Ray said defensively.

"Not MY rookie!"

"Is that what this is about? Spenser is yours? Yeah, hey Jay? He's part of a _team_."

"Where have you been the last, what, six months? Eight? Head up your ass? How many times have we lost him? Huh Ray? How many times?"

"OH! COME ON!" Ray exploded. "That again? Really? We're going there?" He shook his head. "Fine! FINE! We can't coddle the kid Jason. He's a trained Tier One operator who managed missions and deployments with no issues before he joined Bravo. Do you get that? His JOB is to do what he is ordered to do by his team leader."

"How tired were you when we came off our shift? Huh Ray? What, 'cause he's like, 10 years younger than you, he doesn't get tired? That what you're saying?"

"I'm saying you wouldn't have cared how tired he was either! You let Trent have way to much say with Spenser, treat him like he's some fragile..."

"Watch what you say Ray." Jason warned softly. "That kid is ours and until we get him figured out, it's on us to make sure he makes it home." He stomped to the door. "We're done."

"Jason, where are you going?" Eric called. "Jay! Dammit, hey, don't walk away from me." He followed. "Jason!"

"I'm getting coffee, a sandwich. Going to review the tapes, see what Randy has for me to go on, then I'm taking Trent and Brock and I'm going after the kid." His look, his stance said; try and stop me, I dare you.

"HEY NOW!" Sonny protested. "And me!"

"Have the plane ready, 'cause as soon as I get that kid back, we're leaving."

()()()

"Sir, you have a phone call." A land-line phone receiver was held out.

Delta, despite grumblings and protests had returned to the jungle with Bravo to continue the search for Clay.

"Me?" Eric jabbed his thumb into his chest. He looked around, then reached to take the receiver. "Blackburn."

"You thee boss?" Asked a male voice in broken English. "I need thee boss man." He spoke rapidly and Eric had a hard time following the words. "I call everyone, ask for boss man. I get transferred, hung up on. I call back. I tired of run around. I want thee boss man of American Navy."

"This is Lieutenant Commander Eric Blackburn, Naval Forces, United States of America. What can I do for you?"

"You can come get your man."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We find man in jungle. Not want him."

"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" Eric snapped his fingers at Randy, motioned to the phone to start a trace.

"I am Major Wang Ying of the People's Liberation Army."

"Major Ying, how may I be of assistance?"

"We on patrol, man in mud. We give him back."

Eric held the receiver against his chest. "Anyone speak Chinese?" He waited, sighed. "No one? Of course not." He put the phone back to his ear, realized he'd missed nearly an entire conversation in those mere seconds.

"...NONONO! You no be silent! You take him back! You hear me? He too much work! Bah...whine and moan and cry all thee time. Don't know what wrong with him. Something. He's yours. We no want him."

"Could you, uh, describe this man you found in the mud in your jungle?" Eric managed to get in when the man paused for breath.

"He's yours! You no give to us!"

"Yes Major, I understand." Eric said patiently. "Now then, so I know who...to, aah send to retrieve him, could you tell me what he looks like?"

"You try trick us! We no patsy."

"I understand sir." Eric continued calmly. "What makes you believe this man is American Navy?"

And Major Ying spat. "He American. You listen, I read. He have tag on chain. Make no sense." He read the information off the tags to Eric. "I mean business. Give him to you. You take him back. Poor joke you play on Chinese!"

"They have Clay?" Randy shook his head.

"And they don't want him?" Mandy said dubiously. "I find that hard to believe."

"We give you 15 minutes." Major Ying said. "Meet this address. You no there, we give to local police."

()()()

"You didn't have to come." Eric told Mandy. Unable to reach either Bravo or Delta, Eric and Mandy were on their way to hopefully retrieve Clay, Eric driving. "Jason will calm down. He gets hot whenever any of his men are in danger and he's not with them."

"Major Ying said he was okay?" Mandy asked. They'd studied the area, confirmed there was a Major Ying in the Chinese Army, still...it might be a trap. Doubtful though.

"Said he's alive."

They continued the drive in silence.

Clay stirred but because the floor was hard and unforgiving, neither his hands nor his feet wished to respond to his command to move. He attempted to sit up, but his body decided he should remain lying down. He groaned, stomach roiling. He aborted his full-body stretch with a yelp that made his toes curl. His right foot _finally_ obeyed his request to flex and rotate but not his left.

He was in pain, it was intense, it was constant and it made him feel like his belly was about to evict itself from its rightful position through his mouth, nose, ears.

The pressure in his head was building and no amount of deep breaths or heavy panting made it ease. He tried again to move, roll over, sit up, but all at once, every bruise, cut, scrape, scratch and itch attacked him simultaneously. Muscles cramped and he wavered between puking and passing out.

Oh-holy-mother-fucker, he was being tortured: His toenails were being pulled from his toes, heated spikes had been driven into his left hip, hot pokers filleted the skin from his left shoulder, thumb screws twisted every finger on his left hand and something was repeatedly hammering at his left elbow.

Clay came to with a violent jerk, screaming in agony as he flailed about in attempt to withdraw from whatever was killing him. Pain from the impact of his foot kicking something hard left him limp and panting.

"Hey, easy." Said a somewhat familiar, comforting American male voice. "I've gotcha, you're okay."

Clay raised a hand but wasn't really able to control its flopping movement. He wanted to wipe his mouth, wipe the sweat or water or whatever was trickling across his forehead from his face but he just couldn't make his hand do what he wanted it to.

"Take it easy." The voice commanded. "Easy." His hand was caught, squeezed, held. "Easy Clay.

Clay quelled the urge to vomit, but it was a struggle. Oh God, he hurt.

Mandy stood over Eric's shoulder, watching him try and calm Clay down with just his voice and a gentle touch. Clay was used to Trent and Jason tag-teaming him or Brock or Sonny, not Eric and it took Bravo's youngest several minutes to respond to the authoritative voice.

"Hey there." Eric greeted quietly when Clay's eyes finally stopped blinking and remained open. "Clay?"

Clay heard his Commander's voice, tried to respond, but his mouth was dry, his throat thick and when he tried to turn his head, pain spiked down his spine, not relenting until he cried out.

"You see! You see! There! That! All thee time! Screaming like we killing him!"

Eric glanced up, growled. "Because you have him on a cement floor. Because you haven't tried to help him. Because you haven't done anything to make him comfortable. Because you haven't done anything to make him feel better. Because you don't know where or how he's hurt." He bared his teeth. "You ever hear of a pillow? A blanket?"

"You take him and get gone!"

Eric turned his attention back to Clay. The kid was slowly coming around, his eyes were now focused and he had control of his breathing but he still lacked coordination and control of his hands.

"Can you hear me?" Eric asked, waited. Clay finally nodded. "Gonna look you over, okay? Can you tell me what hurts?" He didn't need Clay to tell him he was in pain, Eric knew it by Clay's breathing, his rigidity and the permanent wince on his face. Eric gently and quickly felt for broken bones, bumps on his head, gun shots, knife wounds, said a prayer when he didn't find any.

"Fucked up..." a strangled moan escaped. "...from the left side down." He choked back a groan. "Hip."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Laces...broke...fell down..." He swallowed. "...hill...hung...vine...mud...hip...ow." He licked his lips, let his tongue hang on his lower lip, held there by his teeth.

"Okay, you're on a cement floor. Doesn't help, I know." Eric could piece the scenario together well enough. "Can you sit up?"

"Don't wanna."

"Take a minute." Eric turned to Major Ying. "You didn't even give him water?"

"He go bat-shit crazy, we go near him!"

"So, no." Eric just bet Clay did. He didn't like anyone near him he didn't know. Mandy handed him a bottle of water. "Thanks. Don't suppose you have any ibu..."

Mandy produced a bottle. "Do you think it's safe to give him any?"

Eric shook three pills from the bottle, gave it back to Mandy. "Doc says it's safe." He knelt beside Clay, gently lifted his head from the floor. "Here, small sips...swallow...good..."

"We should go." Mandy advised.

"Working on it."

"Major Ying doesn't look..."

"Mandy!" Eric snapped. Clay looked up from his focus on the hand holding the water bottle, let his eyes flick over to Mandy, took a breath. "A minute!"

"M'good." He slurred, dug his heels against the floor but as soon as he tried to bring his knees towards his chest, a pathetic whine and a pitiful grunt had Eric telling him to stay still.

"Take a minute." Eric advised, let Clay's head rest on his knee, patted his shoulder. His position was awkward but he simply could not bring himself to return the kid's head to the floor.

"N'im 'k." With a litany of ow's and ouch's accompanied by a chorus of grunts and cries and curses and Eric's help and assistance, Clay finally managed to sit up.

Mandy watched as he panted, eyed the door. She wanted to leave before they wore out their welcome with the Chinese.

"Clay? Clay? Spenser? HEY!" Eric grabbed his chin, raised his head. "Don't worry about them." He waved at the Chinese. "We'll go when you're ready."

Feeling the tight yet gentle touch on his face, Clay buried his face against his sleeve until his lips stopped trembling and his jaw no longer quivered.

"Eric." Mandy began but a palm in the air towards her face, rendered her silent.

"Mandy, look at him! Do you see him?" Eric supported Clay's weight. The kid was limp, not a dead weight, so he was still conscious. "I don't know what happened, but he's obviously hurt and laying on a cement floor sure as hell isn't helping."

"Is anything broken?" She asked.

"Most likely, he stiffened up...muscles, joints, tendons...kid's in a world of hurt and you standing there, tapping your foot isn't going to get him moving any faster."

"Hip." Clay murmured. "Left. Ow."

Eric awkwardly juggled Clay's weight against his shoulder, bent down, ran his hand along Clay's left hip. He paused. "Little help here." He scowled at Mandy.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Loosen his belt, I can't get my hand in."

"Do what?"

"I want to feel skin Mandy, see if anything is embedded or torn or jabbed into him. Not gonna undress him here, no hole in his camo's, but..."

Clay tensed when she knelt opposite Eric, but let her unbuckle his belt and pull his fly open until the buttons popped.

"That's one hell of a bruise forming." She commented. Eric nodded, slid a hand in, felt carefully, fingers soft and light. "Anything?"

"No." Eric blew his breath out in relief. "Gonna guess he pulled a muscle or hyper-extended his hip somehow. That's on Doc."

"Can he walk?"

"Help me up." Clay extended a hand to her. She stared stupidly, he let his hand fall. Eric glared.

"I've got ya kid." Eric slid his hands under Clay's arms from behind, held his weight. "Gonna get my feet under me, we'll stand together...ready?"

It was amazing what a person, who couldn't force his body to obey a simple command, could do when faced with angry Chinese soldiers ranting at him to 'get gone'. Effects and reactions to pain and discomfort could be conquered if – when – the effort to do so was put forth when you were with someone you knew and trusted.

Clay painfully gained his feet, Eric supporting most of his weight.

"You drive." Eric told Mandy, ducked under Clay's arm, slung the kid's arm over his shoulders, slid his other hand around Clay's waist. "Come on kid, let's get you to Trent."


	6. Chapter 6

"Uncle Ray! You didn't!" Emma admonished, waggled a finger. "How could you?"

"Ho there wee one." Sonny chortled. "He did."

Jason blew his breath out, relieved Emma hadn't picked up on how pissed he'd been at Ray and how long the team had taken to stop giving their 2IC the cold shoulder. They could joke about it now, but back then...oye.

"Kid was bruised and swollen for a month."

"Could barely move."

"Only person I've known who strains a hip and feels better with his leg drawn towards his chest, then stretched out. Kid's ass backwards."

"Had to help him get up."

"Flight home was rough."

"Took him home with me."

"Right, Stella was on the shit list then."

"Kid couldn't manage stairs for what, two weeks?"

"They were considering surgery."

Everyone was quiet, took a drink. They were so used to the kid escaping serious injury and healing quickly, a mere hip sprain that had side-lined him for six weeks was still hard to chew.

"And you!" Emma tossed a koozie at Sonny, broke the mood. "You cut his shoe laces?"

"Frayed them." Sonny corrected, caught the sponge koozie, tossed it back. "I had to run hills in full gear with my complete kit every day until I could run the distance set by Blackburn in the time your daddy allowed."

"No gravy on your mashed potatoes!" Brock teased. "For what, two weeks?"

"Think I lost 10 pounds. You laugh. Think I recall you being banished to grunt work with Support, why was that again?"

Brock grinned, toasted Sonny with his beer, didn't answer, said instead; "Never realized how much of a mess we leave behind someone else has to clean up."

Emma turned expectedly to Ray, waited.

"I didn't do anything wrong." Ray said finally. "Was well within...it's Clay's job..." He sighed, wilted. "Your dad made me do the AAR reports for Bravo for as long as it took Sonny to pass his running test."

And he hadn't been happy. He'd missed phone calls and face-time with his wife and kids; had stayed up late eight nights in a row, lost sleep, time off, personal time, having drinks with the guys.

"What about Miss Mandy?" Emma tilted her head to look at her dad. "Don't Clay and Miss Mandy get along?"

Silence.

Only one person in the backyard could answer that question...and everyone wondered what Jason would admit to.

"It's complicated." Jason said evasively. "Mandy sent us on some pet missions. Some ops we ran under another team's intel or recon, their info under her authority and shit went sideways a time or two."

"Pet mission?"

"A job Mandy or her boss wanted Bravo for because Clay spoke the language."

Sonny growled. "Hate that shit."

"That doesn't sound fair." Emma looked at Eric.

"It's the Navy, and no, it's not." Eric answered. "Took some doing, but a stop has been put to it."

"Did it happen a lot?"

"More than it should."

"Did it bother Clay?"

"It pissed us all off." Sonny muttered. "Everyone just thought they could have him."

"I get you're a team and the more you're together, the better you are, but no other team ever meant Clay harm, did they?"

Jason gave her a hug. "No. They just don't know him."

"Do we? Remember Burma?"

"Wasn't it Thailand? Had to go into those mountains by fucking steam train."

"Wasn't steam Sonny."

"It jerked and wobbled and shook and chugged, thought it was gonna lose a couple cars."

"Yeah, the one with me in it."

"Don't know how it made it around some of those curves."

"Was 'Nam, wasn't it?"

_***Clay rides the train***_

Eric entered the room quietly. As good as he was at stealth, he doubted he could best this team if they weren't so god-damn fucking tired.

He'd been three days behind Bravo, had arrived and been confronted by a red-eyed, irritable Davis who admitted she'd been the one to summon him immediately to command.

He hadn't been happy when he'd heard the reason why.

The team was operating on two hours of sleep in the last 72 hours. They napped for maybe ten minutes at a time then the alarm went off and they were up and out. Sure, they dozed in the truck, closed their eyes while waiting for debrief, but they hadn't had any decent sleep and now that he was here, he meant to do something about it.

His unpacking, his hot shower, his late lunch could wait. They were due to go back out in twenty minutes, and when Eric opened the door to their barracks, Cerberus gave him the look only a dog had...the I'd-take-your-hand-off-if-I-weren't-too-tired-to-even-bark look.

That did it. If the dog was that tired he refused to get up, then the guys were blown to hell. Mandy could rant and rave at him, he could take it.

He crossed the room to the table between Jason and Ray's cots, reached slowly without any threatening moves to turn off the alarm. He put a fingers to his lips to 'ssshh-shush' Jason before the exhausted chief could do more than open one eye.

Jason wasn't sure he wasn't dreaming, but if his imagination gained him a few more minutes of sleep, he wasn't going to argue with himself.

"You're done," said Eric quietly.  He pulled the curtains across the window, backed out of the room, pulled the door closed.

It was easier to enter the room where the rest of Bravo slept. No bunk beds, two cots on opposite sides of the room. Sonny was sprawled on his back, cowboy hat over his face - how the hell did he travel with that thing and not crumple it? Both Trent and Brock slept on their side, facing the wall and Clay? Pfft. Eric had never, in his life or career, seen a man with the ability to sprawl in the most awkward, ungainly, uncomfortable positions as that kid right there. And he woke up with no aches or pains or stiff joints. Defied gravity, logic, the human body.

He shook his head, turned off their alarm, wondered if these men were that tired, they didn't stir when someone entered their room. Wasn't usual, that was for sure. He'd expected someone to bolt awake, come up swinging. Or were they just that used to him, his step, his breathing, his scent.

"Go'way Blackburn," muttered Sonny.

"…..'til got 15 minutes….." added Brock.

"You have until dawn. Grub at 0600." He backed out of the room, pulled the door closed behind him. When he turned to leave the barracks, Jason was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, blinking sleep from red, crusted eyes.

"You're off rotation." Eric said. "Get some sleep."

"Just like that?" Jason fought a yawn, lost.

Eric nodded, waited for Jason's reaction, surprised, yet pleased when the Master Chief shrugged and went back to his room, shut the door softly. He stood in the hall, rubbed his hands down his face, Christ, they were that tired!

Time to confront Mandy.

()()()

Come 6 a.m. the following morning, Eric, having let Bravo sleep in, joined them for breakfast.

"Not feeling any better?" Trent asked Clay when he over-chewed his soft, scrambled eggs, took several tries to swallow, put his fork down, didn't eat anything more.

"I'm okay." But his eyes were red, swollen, the lids dry and when he dug his knuckles against them in an attempt to itch them, the skin flaked.

"Trent?" Jason asked, ignored Clay.

The medic shook his head, added salt to his scrambled eggs.

"Go to the infirmary." Jason told Clay. "We roll in thirty."

Clay wanted to argue but he was miserable and just too tired. He got up from the table, tossed the food on his plate into the trash, set the tray on the conveyor belt, walked out.

"His throat still giving him fits?" Eric asked. "Been what, a month?"

Trent shrugged, he wanted more eggs. "Comes and goes. Hasn't run a fever yet."

"Having a hard time swallowing though." Brock spoke up. "Visible swelling in his neck."

Trent was well aware of that. Clay had been tested for:

Strep - negative.  
Sinus infection - negative.  
Upper respiratory infection - negative.  
Mono - negative.  
Ear infection - negative.  
Tonsillitis - negative.

Doc had the kid on antibiotics three times. Three times his sore throat went away, three times it returned a day or two after he stopped the course of mediation.

"I'm a medic, not a doctor." He salted what he thought was supposed to be bacon. "I know injury and trauma, not illness and viruses."

He knew how to sew or glue skin together. Reset broken bones and realign dislocated joints. He could start an IV, transfuse blood. If he had to, he could insert a chest tube or successfully complete an intubation. It wasn't until Spenser had joined the team that he'd been able to openly read up on illnesses, allergies, reactions and symptoms. With Doc being a patient, understanding ally, and neither Jason nor Eric caring how much time he spent with his nose in a book, the challenge of: what's-wrong-with-the-kid-this-time, made Trent geek-out.

And because it was for the team's rookie, the guys didn't even think to tease him about it.

"Strep?" Ray guessed.

"Been tested and ruled out."

"Time he had another culture done."

Trent didn't comment. Something as simple as strep with their kid? Not bloody likely.

()()()

Clay expected their Doc but it was the base doctor who greeted him. He hesitated, but Jason had ordered him to the infirmary, he hadn't specified to see the team doc.

"So, you're here for a sore throat?"

"Uh, yeah. Hurts to swallow."

"Righty then, up on the table." The doctor pulled on latex gloves, came at Clay with a tongue depressor. "Open up, say aah."

Clay opened his mouth, stopped with a wince, clacked his teeth together.

"That hurts?"

"Little."

"Well now," the doctor set the tongue depressor aside, gently felt behind Clay's ears, down his neck, under his chin, across his throat. "Feel any discomfort?"

"Little."

"Glands are enlarged. This hurt?"

"A bit."

"Throat hurt to swallow?"

"Little."

"Head hurt?"

"No." He hesitated. "Headache though, but aspirin reeled it in."

"You differentiate between a headache and your head hurting?"

"Yeah." Didn't everyone?

"Want you to lie down, tilt your head back, open your mouth wide as you can."

Clay obeyed but it was no easier to open his mouth wide enough for the Doc to stick both a tongue depressor and flashlight in his mouth than it had been when he was sitting up.

"You appear tired, any trouble sleeping?"

"Just the job." Oh, he had no problem sleeping, when he was actually allowed to sleep.

"Any coughing?"

"No."

A thermometer went in his ear. "Normal, good, good." The doctor opened a package. "Okay, wide as you can, gonna take a swab sample, draw some blood, start you on an antibiotic."

"Uh, I…..have allergies to….."

"Got your chart right here." The doctor pointed to a laptop on a counter. "You'll be good."

"We roll out in thirty….." He paused. How much time had passed? "Soon as I'm done here."

"Antibiotic can go with you." The doctor said. "Can you say aah?"

He could and he did, but he winced, coughed a bit when the swab hit the back of his throat.

"Soon as a lab tech comes in, I'll have results." The doctor said, set the swab aside. "Which arm do you prefer?

"I can fly though, right?" He extended his left arm. "Team's ready to leave."

"Yup, I'll call your Commander when I have results. Mostly likely, it's just strep."

But Bravo didn't fly. They took the train.

***000***

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the track.  
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the track.  
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the track.

Clay slumped in the corner on a hard, uncomfortable wood bench on the loudest, smelliest, dirtiest train he'd ever been on in his life. His head was against the wall, face turned out - the train lacked glass windows - seeking fresh air, eyes closed, desperately willing his stomach to not evict its contents as the train lurched and jerked, rocked and swayed, paused and jerked and chugged agonizingly slowly forward.

Ugh.

He held a barf bag in his lap. The uneven motion of the train made him queasy as it clickety-clacked on tracks cut into the side of a rock cliff - chiseled by hand, he bet - on fucking ancient wood trestles that groaned and creaked under the weight of, and heard over, hundreds of tons of steel and iron.

Clay had been brave enough once – once – to open his eyes, look out. Wouldn't do that again. Oh hell no.

If the train stopped during its uphill trek, they would immediately start a backwards slide. If the train derailed, everyone was dead. The drop off the tracks would send the cars plummeting into a ravine thousands of feet below.

Clay groaned at the thought. Kinda thought maybe that was why his stomach was doing flips.

They flew all the time, in all kinds of weather, on every kind of aircraft known to man that flew within the Earth's atmosphere. Difference was, they were operated by trained pilots who Clay had complete trust in. For all he knew, some eleven-year old kid was conducting this train to the top of the mountain.

Without moving his head, he risked a look at his watch…..at barely 30 miles an hour, they had four more hours to go before they were due to reach their destination. He didn't think he was going to make it.

He glanced at this teammates.

Sonny sat with his head back, favorite hat over his face – slept.  
Ray sat with headphones – slept.  
Brock and Jason straddled a bench, faced one another, played cards.  
Trent was fucking reading.

He squirmed, uncomfortable and miserable. The mere thought of looking at printed words while on this fucking train made him swallow bile. He was hot, sweating. The air was thick and the stench of so many people crammed onto the train despite the car being open to the outside air, made his head swirl, his stomach churn aggressively; the food, the livestock car, body odor; the noise, chickens squawking in cages, the talking, the chatter, the laughter.

The antibiotics, which he'd shown to Trent and gained approval to take, hadn't made him feel any better. His throat still hurt and despite the warmth and hot temperature, he shivered. Chills? He cautiously swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, wiped the sweat on his shorts. Really? How? How could he be sweating so much yet shiver with chills?

Sweat pooled on his forehead, trickled down his nose, dripped onto his bottom lip and he risked hunching a shoulder to use his sleeve to wipe his face. Whatever muscle in his stomach that such an action required, revolted and he grabbed the barf bag, doubled over, vomited with his head between his legs.

Brock flicked a look up through his bangs, didn't move.  
Sonny thumbed the brim of his hat up just a fraction, didn't move.  
Ray rolled his head on the back of his seat, slit his eyes, didn't move.  
Jason crossed an ankle, folded hands in his lap, stared at Clay.  
Trent turned the page.

Clay spit, gagged, closed the bag, tossed it off the train. Someone handed him a new one, he took it, mumbled his thanks. He didn't want to get up, didn't want to draw attention to himself or his team, but he didn't feel any better and his throat was on fire. He wanted, needed, water.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, sat up. Trent was closest to him but his voice was hoarse, his throat thick with phlegm and his words didn't carry. Biting his lip, he stood up, wobbled, swayed with the motion of the train, took one step, went to his knees.

Multiple hands reached out to support him. Several languages were spoken. Some words were angry, some comforting, others questioning. Hands unknown to him, tried to grab him, return him to his seat. He shrugged free, slapped out.

"Hey," Trent set his book aside, got up. "Sit...no...on the floor."

When people saw Clay respond to him, they backed away, some with smiles, other with scowls, let Trent handle him.

"It's okay." Trent told the crowd. "Travel sick."

Those who understood English spread the word in one language or another and people began to lose interest, returned to their seats, what they'd been doing.

Trent tipped Clay's head up. "You puke blood?" He thumbed smears of blood from Clay's lip. "Bite your tongue?" He asked hopefully but with doubt.

Clay shrugged, hell, he didn't know. Maybe.

"Your belly hurt?"

"Throat." Clay let Trent push him onto the floor. "Water?"

"Your throat." Trent repeated, sighed. He should have gone with the kid to see the doc. He hadn't been happy when Clay had returned from the infirmary, reported he'd seen the base doc, not the team doc but it was time to go, the kid had antibiotics to take with him, so they'd loaded up and headed out.

Clay had said the doctor believed lab results and blood work would confirm strep and released him to participate in this mission because he lacked a fever.

"Water?" Clay asked again. Sonny, now sitting up, hat on his head where it belonged, handed him a bottle.

Trent watched him drink, wince, swallow, grimace; drink, wince, swallow, grimace.

Oh boy.

"That hurts?" Trent raised an eyebrow. "You getting any down?"

"Mmm." Clay wanted more water, but it simply hurt too much to swallow. The taste in his mouth was disgusting. He thought it was from puking, thought maybe it wasn't.

"Hold still." On his knees next to Clay, Trent gave him pretty much the same exam the doctor had. "This hurt?" He pressed behind Clay's ears. "What about this?" He thumbed under Clay's jaw, down his throat, both sides of this neck. No matter where he pressed or applied pressure, how hard or how light, Clay nodded yes every time Trent asked if it hurt.

Clay should have moved to the floor earlier. It was cooler, the smell wasn't as bad, the swaying wasn't as severe, the chugging, jerking and lurching of the train wasn't felt as much and the rickety sound of clacking wheels and groaning tracks was dulled. God Almighty, he wanted to lie down.

"What you got?" Jason asked.

"Swollen glands, hard to swallow, nausea, tongue's coated." Trent replied. "Right ear hurts, neck is swollen." He pulled a bandanna from a pocket, wiped the sweat from Clay's face. Wet it with water from the bottle in Clay's hand, bathed his face and neck. "Betting on an elevated temp."

"Are those...goose bumps?" Brock gave Clay's shoulder a squeeze. "Dude, you pick the damnest places to get sick."

"Not good." Sonny muttered. "Right?"

"Clay, I need you to open your mouth for me." Trent said.

The kid had been sick for a month, hadn't hid anything from the team or Doc but Trent agreed with Brock; Spenser picked a fine time to go down.

"No."

"Tip your head back, that's it." Trent didn't miss his wince or hitch in breath. "Your neck stiff? Jace, hold the light."

"Can I lie down?"

Jace?

Brock, Sonny and Ray all sat up, moved closer.

"Don't put your head on the floor." Trent warned, moved so Clay had room to go down on his back. The floor was filthy, God knew what littered it, but Clay didn't care, let Trent slide a hand under his neck, guide his head to rest on Jason's feet.

Trent didn't have a tongue depressor, was reluctant to use his finger – Clay had a known gag reflex – but he lacked anything else strong enough to hold the kid's tongue down so…..

"Relax your tongue." He scrubbed his hands with a hand-sanitizer that was mostly, uh, edible. "Not gonna taste good, won't hurt you though."

"Already taste something awful." Clay obeyed, panting now. The invasion into his mouth as well as the taste caused saliva to pool but swallowing was a dreaded action. His throat, raw from his recent bout of puking, was now so painful his eyes were moist.

"Been drooling a lot?" Trent removed his finger, used the bandanna to wipe Clay's mouth, then wiped blood and pus from his finger.

"Uh, don't think so." Not before now, not excessively anyway.

"Excess saliva?"

"Little." But he hadn't been drooling and until now, after a couple tries, he could swallow it.

"This ear ache?" Trent directed Jason's wrist so the light shone into Clay's right ear that was red and swollen.

"Little."

"Does your throat hurt even if you don't swallow?"

Clay nodded.

"One side more than the other? Right side?"

"Guess. Dunno. That even a thing?" Talking hurt. He obediently opened his mouth when Trent nudged his lips, licked with his tongue.

"Headache?"

Clay nodded, let Trent manipulate his tongue, poke with his finger until he gagged, coughing.

"Can you open your mouth any wider?" Trent tried to help him open his jaw, but a strangled groan made him stop. "So, no."

Clay scowled, didn't appreciate Trent's tone. It wasn't that he _wouldn't_ obey, it was he _couldn't_.

"Still have your tonsils?" He took the light from Jason. "Say aah."

"Yeah." He swallowed, whimpered. "Aah...owwww!"

"Ever give you trouble growing up?"

"Dunno." He used two fingers each to rub his eyes. "Um, when I was a kid, maybe."

"How young?"

"Dunno, a tyke, I guess."

Trent sighed. "Whole right side of your head is swollen. Ear, tongue, throat, glands, neck, even the roof of your mouth."

"Strep, you think?" Jason asked.

"Too much swelling." Trent pulled a bottle from his back pack.

"The hell medical man?"

"I'm okay." Clay pushed his hair off his forehead but made no move to get up.

"Your tonsils are swollen, you can't swallow, you're running a fever."

"Is it serious?" Ray asked.

Trent waved a hand in Clay's direction, made a face.

"I'm good guys." Clay sat up, Trent let him, Jason gave him a hand.

"Uh-huh." Trent offered Clay some water. He took the bottle, but just held it. "Thought so." He removed a bottle from his back pack. "Gonna numb your throat, might make you drowsy."

"We'll make sure no one makes off with yourself." Sonny teased, pulled a damp curl.

"If you throw a reaction to this, I'm throwing you off the train." Trent warned. "Close your mouth, I'm gonna squirt a couple times...ready?"

"Wait, reaction?" Ray picked up. "You've never given this to him before?" He frowned. "And you think here, now, is a good time?"

"He's had Lidocaine before, just not orally." Trent capped the bottle, tapped Clay playfully on the nose with a finger. "You get dizzy, your vision blurs, your tongue swells, you get a rash, you itch...hell, just let me give you a shot of an antihistamine now."

Clay gave him a sunny smile. Trent was not amused. Without warning, he knocked Clay into Jason's lap, ignored his strangled, cut-off yelp, bared skin, swabbed his hip, jabbed him with the needle.

"Damn, you're quick." Ray grinned.

"YOW!" Clay croaked, rubbed his abused muscle. "Ow." He moaned pathetically, face against his boss's shoulder.

"Get up." Jason easily stood, gained his balance with the swaying of the train, pulled Clay to his feet, sat him on the bench.

Trent packed his back pack, sat down opposite Clay. He picked his book up but to put it away, not read it, he didn't intend to take his eyes off the kid until they were off the train.

Clay slumped against the wall, head on the edge of the window. Jason didn't like him in that position, and thirty seconds later, Clay was laying on his back on the bench, head in Jason's lap.

"Lookin' good boss." Sonny teased, Jason flipped him off and his smile faded. "He getting some sleep?"

Jason looked at Trent. "How'd you know that would put him out?"

"Didn't." Trent admitted. "Guessed he wasn't sleeping 'cause of his throat." He paused, hesitated, ran a hand through his hair. "Can I have the sat phone?"

Jason didn't bat an eye, pulled it from his pocket, handed it over.

"Calling the wife?" Ray teased.

"Doc." Trent got up. "That taste in his mouth isn't bile, it's pus and something's bleeding. You got him?" He asked Jason who nodded.

Everyone looked at Clay, who slept with one foot on the floor, the other on the bench, knee raised, managed to stay on the bench without anyone holding him.

"Trent?" Jason called as Trent walked to the front of the car. The medic stopped, turned back. "If Doc thinks we need to send the kid back, call Blackburn, have him come get him, we'll continue the mission."

Trent nodded, moved on. There was no need for Jason to remind him to remain within sight. The train cars were not the type you could go between.

"Guess we learned, don't trust some quack on a foreign military base." Sonny said.

"Guess we learned, don't trust modern test results." Ray added.

"Some doctor or lab missed something somewhere." Brock stared out the window.

Jason warned off everyone with a stare, curled lip, show of teeth. The last thing he wanted was anyone to start believing Clay was sick with some contagious disease and cause a commotion that would put them off the train...somewhere.

Trent came back, returned the phone to Jason, resumed his seat.

"Well?" Brock demanded.

"Doc's thinking a Peritonsillar abscess."

"In English?"

"Bacterial infection from untreated tonsillitis. A collection of pus near his tonsils."

"Bullshit." Sonny snapped. "He was treated with antibiotics three times!" He waggled three fingers, and repeated, "THREE TIMES!"

"Obviously not the right ones." Ray retorted.

"He took them like he was supposed to." Brock defended Clay who still slept.

"Doc's headed to check on the lab results." Trent shared. "Says if the swelling gets worse, it could effect his ability to breathe or burst then infection could spread to his lungs."

"What do we do?"

Trent shook his head. "Only antibiotics I have with me are the ones he brought. we'll get him some ice cream, might help the swelling. He's run pretty ragged, maybe getting off the train will help him settle down."

"Don't like this boss."

Clay slept until they reached the village, one arm over his eyes, didn't move his head from Jason's thigh. He woke groggy, remained unsteady on his feet as they headed for a café where they ordered flavored, shaved ices and cups of fruit while they discussed their mission.

The sat phone rang, Jason answered, had a brief conversation, hung up.

"Doc wants him back." He told the others. ""Blackburn's flying up with Chuck to get him."

"Wowwee! Lookee there Goldilocks. Itty-bitty bleeding tonsil, some pus and bam, you don't have to ride the train back down!" Sonny nudged Clay whose chin slipped off his palm when his elbow supporting his head buckled. "Whoa there young'in." He reached to steady Clay. "You okay?"

"Alright, Sonny with me, Brock with Ray." Jason tossed some bills on the table, handed Trent the sat phone. "Find some grass where he can lie down until they get here, then go North. We'll meet back here in two."

()()()

If Bravo thought going down the mountain would be:

A) better  
B) faster  
C) a smoother ride  
D) less motion

They were sadly mistaken.

Chris picked them up. He had a cooler of beer and sandwiches, drove them back to the base where they hit the showers, called home. Sonny wandered towards the infirmary when he didn't find Clay in his bunk.

"Spenser? Spenser?" The medic or nurse, whatever he was, typed on the computer. "Petty Officer? Or Special Warfare?"

"Blonde curls, blue eyes." Sonny spat, hands fisted to keep from reaching over the counter, grabbing the dude by his collar and testing whether or not his head would bounce. "Start spitting out details or I'll hang you upside down and shake you until you do."

"Quinn." Doc waved at him from a doorway.

"Hey Doc, how's he doing?"

"He's pretty uncomfortable. The abscess was quite large. I aspirated it with a needle, but couldn't get all the pus out, so used a scalpel to lance it. He started bleeding, had to use suction, but there's drainage which spiked his fever."

"How did this happen?" Sonny asked. "He's seen you, other doctors. He's had tests, taken medicine. I don't get it."

"Only explanation I have is, he's Clay." Doc sighed.

"Not good enough!" He growled, recalling Clay's painful attempts to swallow the slivers of shaved ice Trent had insisted he eat to help reduce the swelling in this throat.

Doc shrugged, unfazed by Sonny's blustering. "I can assure you, we will prevent it from happening again."

"How?"

"When we get home, he's getting his tonsils out."

"Can I see him?"

"He needs rest Sonny, not badgering or endless teasing. Maybe in the morning."

Hands went to his hips, toes tapped in protest until Doc gave in.

"Right." Doc waved him on. "Keep it quiet, let him sleep Sonny."

"What's he on?"

"IV antibiotics is all." Doc said.

Sonny nodded, entered the room. Clay was sleeping on his side, shifted when Sonny scraped the chair across the floor, pulled it closer to the bed.

"Sorry." Sonny sat down, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head held in his hands. Trent had said Clay hadn't been content even laying down in the shade with Trent feeding him spoonful's of ice. He found the remote, turned the TV on, sat back, put his feet on the bed, crossed his ankles. "Okay kid, okay."

Clay snuggled into the pillow, finally relaxed and knowing Sonny wouldn't be going anywhere, went to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a request for a chapter on Sonny?...okay...I'll try!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my usual disclaimer...medical inconsistencies…...and there is no time line/order to these chapters...I'm aware they are all over the place.  
> *sigh*  
> Guilty...I love to 'whump' Clay and yes, I do play favorites...and...mine is Jason...….

 

* * *

"So, did they take his tonsils out?"

"Mmmm, yeah, he got them out."

"Men his age with no history of chronic tonsillitis," said Trent, "Don't usually have issues with tonsil's."

And a chorus of voices chimed; "He's Clay!"

"He was miserable." Davis added. "Just laid around. Ate ice cream, pudding, jello for a month."

"I don't remember Bravo being home for..." Emma paused. "Well, not with the hip nor with his tonsils."

"Cupcake, your daddy didn't let us around you back then."

"We weren't home, but he was."

Emma was quiet. She was well aware the guys were telling the stories with humor, knew there was much more drama and danger involved in the missions then they let on, but she wasn't going to push. Since her mother died, her dad had opened up a bit about his life with his men and she'd realized, her dad was an entirely different person when he was with his team.

She liked hearing about this part of his life and while she wanted more, she would take what she got.

"Did he need them out?"

"Didn't matter. Couldn't have him going down with strep or tonsillitis or popping Halls every other month." Sonny tossed her another beer, Jason promptly it took away from her. "Doc said taking them out would be best, so they came out."

"Question is, why didn't he need them out before he joined Bravo?" Ray muttered. Seemed like a lot of things, the kids issues and problems, had come to light after he'd joined the team.

"So, you made him miserable deliberately?"

Eric squirmed, still plagued by the guilt that popped up every time he thought about putting Clay through a surgery that wasn't strictly necessary. And because he was Clay, there'd been complications; swelling, bleeding, pain. Then again, because he was Clay, he'd healed quickly in a shorter amount of time than expected.

It hadn't mattered whether or not Clay agreed with the procedure. Doc had said it would likely end his issues, Jason thought it a good idea, Trent agreed and that had been that.

"Is he always hurt or sick or lost?"

"What? No."

"NO!"

"Hell, no."

"Uh…..no?"

"Who wants ice cream?" Lisa came out onto the patio with a gallon bucket of Neapolitan ice cream. "Not washing dishes, use a spoon." She set the plastic bucket on the picnic table and everyone moved to take a seat on one of its benches. Trent the last to sit down, having walked by Clay to see if he still slept.

He did.

"Hey, remember that time…" Emma perked up.

_*** Clay goes out for ice cream***_

"Oh my God."

"Do you see him?"

"Holy Crap!"

"Look what just walked in."

"Wow."

"F-I-N-E-fine."

Emma dug her spoon into her ice cream sundae. She was out with her friend enjoying a cool treat on an unbearably hot day. She would have liked to invite Trudy to her house to go swimming but her dad was home and he'd brought Clay with him because the team's rookie was grounded due to disobedience that had led to injury and illness.

Yes, grounded. Apparently, you could ground a grown man. Who knew? And how the hell did you even explain that to someone?

She sighed, made a face. People at the surrounding tables oohed and aahed over every man over the age of 18 who walked through the door, debated whether or not they were from the naval base. And they weren't shy or quiet about it. Really, grow up people!

"Navy, you think?"

"Wow, that his dad?"

"Nah, older though."

"But not old enough."

"They're Navy."

"All of them? You think?"

"Men like that don't hang out together unless they know each other, so yeah, Navy."

That comment had Emma turning her head to look over her shoulder to see who had caught their attention. Naval soldiers and sailors did not frequent the local ice cream parlor geared towards families with kids…except, oh dear God…she wanted to slither right out of her chair and disappear under the table.

Except her dad. Yup, dear old dad had brought Clay out for ice cream. Wow.

"Who would let a dog in here?"

"Oh, it's a service dog."

"That guy doesn't look disabled."

"Maybe it's a military dog. They're allowed everywhere, aren't they?"

"It should be on a leash."

And Brock was here too. With Cerberus. Great. Oh, and his kids.

"Daddy, I want rainbow sherbet because it's so pretty, but only if it is pink, green and orange. If it has white instead of green in it, then I want bubble gum because it's pink. No blue, blue is for boys. May I have it in a waffle cone, please?" said the miniature adult with pretty manners.

Uncle Ray and Jameelah.

She was going to have to hide behind a menu because if Jameelah spotted her, she'd squeal with delight and come running to greet her babysitter.

"I want mine in a cone with sprinkles. Colored ones, not brown."

"You'll get it in a cup."

"Wanna share? You get white ice cream, I'll get brown."

Oh, and Trent with his gaggle of kids – his, hers and theirs. She remembered the first time she babysat them. Janine had joked to open the door and holler lunch; the first five kids through the door got fed - didn't matter if they were all hers.

"Can I get a banana split?"

"Milkshake, please."

Sounded like Brock's youngest. Oh boy.

All who was missing was…

"…..Davis, I'm telling you, frozen yogurt tastes nothing like ice cream….."

Nope, there was Sonny.

The entire team was out together…..why?

"Holy shit!"

"Damn, they're big."

"Look at them!"

"Okay, yeah, they all work out."

"How old do you think they are?"

"Well, they have kids."

"The blonde's mine."

"He can't be over twenty-five."

Despite what her grandmother thought or how many times she scolded her son about his daughter and the men he brought home…..Emma was not, never would be, infatuated with Clay.

1) Clay was old – somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, she guessed.  
2) She'd grown up with her dad gone more than he was home….she wasn't about to have the same life as a wife.  
3) Her dad's life and his men were off-limits.

Emma wondered what the people in the ice cream parlor would think if they knew they were seeing the top, elite military unit the Navy had - the complete team; a team that operated in shadows, that didn't officially exist. A team that never materialized where the public could see them, a team no one - including people in the military stationed on their same base – even knew who they were.

And here they were – complete with their kids. Yay!

Emma worried about her dad giving her away. She had no doubt he knew she was there – piss poor leader indeed if he didn't spot his own daughter - she just hoped her dad would simply ignore her.

"Oh, he has kids."

"No, they belong to…well, one of the others."

"Does it matter?"

"Doesn't mean there's a wife."

"Who do those kids belong to?"

"How many are there anyway?"

"Never liked a man in flip-flops."

"He has feet?"

"Yeah, like for real. Who notices feet with shoulders like that?"

"His feet? What is wrong with you?"

"Seriously."

"Or those arms."

"Love that cowboy hat."

"My, my what a tan."

"I do love a man with a beard."

"Ewww! No, clean shaven, please."

()()()

The kids corralled and sitting at a table by themselves, Bravo pushed two tables together, sat down to enjoy sundaes and banana splits or ice cream and milkshakes….and for Davis – fat free frozen yogurt that after one taste, Sonny promptly labeled disgusting.

"Need a straw?" Trent teased, having watched Clay mash his strawberry shortcake into mush. "Spoon's useless now."

Clay sighed, cupped his chin in his hand. "Not hungry."

"Feeling okay?"

Clay shrugged, eyes lowered.

"What is it?" Trent leaned across the tables to wipe the chin of one kid or another, used the reach across as an excuse to put the back of his hand against Clay's cheek. "No fever."

"Not sick Trent."

Trent was quiet while Ray and Lisa addressed mild misbehavior at the children's table.

"Hey! Do not throw peanuts!"

"Don't make me come over there."

"Clean that up."

"That cherry is your sister's, not yours, no you can't have it."

"None of you will like it, Uncle Sonny has to get up."

The noise and chatter and activity of so many kids – and not just theirs – in a room with high ceilings and filled with nothing but plastic tables caused an echo that made Clay's head hurt.

First time he was out and the heat was making him feel like shit. Great, just great.

They'd just flown home from their last mission. He'd expected to go home and crash but Jason had ordered him to his truck. Once at Jason's, he'd crashed on the couch and slept until an hour or so ago when Jason had gotten him up to go out for lunch.

So, they'd been home about eight hours, maybe. Yeah, he was tired. He hadn't slept well on the plane and Jason's couch was not all that comfortable.

"Maybe boss brought him out too soon." Sonny bumped shoulders with Clay whose elbow slipped off the table and he nearly fell out of his chair. "Well now, little wobbly there weeble."

Clay regained his balance, remained quiet, didn't tease back. Sonny and Trent exchanged a look.

The antibiotic Doc had everyone on as a precaution was not reacting well with, he-who-threw-a-reaction-to everything. Whatever third-world bacterial or viral virus the team may have picked up from insect bites hadn't responded to the antibiotic Clay was normally given and while this one hadn't prompted a severe reaction, they were monitoring him closely.

No one else had exhibited symptoms from either the 'potential virus from unknown insect bite' or the antibiotic. Just Clay. As usual.

Ray and Brock were in a deep discussion, Jason was on the phone, Lisa was teasing Sonny with yogurt on a spoon, and Clay had Trent's attention. The kids were pretty much ignored.

"Your leg bothering you?" Trent asked quietly.

It was, but Clay didn't want to admit it. They were in a public place, full of kids, families, teenagers, people hanging out. He said anything, he'd cause a scene.

"It's good."

"So, no." Sonny reached for Clay's fly, had his hands slapped away. "Stop that, lemme see."

"You're not seeing anything."

"Kid, you don't have a choice."

"I'm fine, back off."

"Throb? Itch? Hot? Tight?"

"It's a bug bite." Clay rolled his eyes in disgust. "Good God, leave me alone."

"Talk to me or you'll be flat on this table with no pants in five seconds flat." Trent waited.

"Sore a bit, guess." Clay admitted, well knew how quick Trent was and what he was capable of doing. He had no doubt the medic would follow through with any threat he issued. He snorted, mild-mannered medic, his ass. Only someone who didn't know the man would think or say that.

"Come on." Trent stood up. He didn't worry about his kids, Ray and Brock would watch them. "Bathroom."

"What?" Clay jerked back, startled. "Why? No." He scowled. "Leave off."

"Would you rather I take your jeans off out here?"

"Take my…..the fuck Trent!" Clay scowled. "It can wait until we're home."

"I'm not taking the kids to Jason's house. Let's go." He snapped his fingers, pointed, fully expected to be obeyed.

He was, just not by who he was ordering – at the next table, his kids came to attention, fell silent, waited.

"Not you." Trent waved them off. Oh, if only Clay obeyed so well. "Clay, come on." He waited, saw Clay wavering over whether or not to go willingly. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours." Trent added. "You're not out of the woods yet."

Clay sighed, pushed to his feet, followed Trent to the bathroom – which had to be in the same room, couldn't be in a hallway, oh no. He went, because if he didn't, oh, he'd pay for it.

Sonny followed, which of course meant, everyone had to follow.

"Mikey, watch the kids." Jason opened the bathroom door, hit Sonny in the ass, told him to shut up when he complained about invasion of personal space.

If anyone's personal space was being compromised, it was Clay's and he said so.

"Shut up."

"Guys, it's just a bug bite." Clay tried again to make everyone back off. "You all don't need to be in here."

"Just?"

"Not with you."

"From some species of insect man has yet to identify."

"It's an infected bug bite."

"Knowing you, it's gonna be cellulitis."

"Sit up there."

"Take your jeans off."

"Let me in."

"Move over."

"There's no room."

"I'm a wee woman, make room."

"Get your elbow out of my gut."

"You're stepping on my foot."

"You break my flip-flip, I'm breaking your toe."

"Really? The dog has to be in here?"

"Clay, lie down."

"You tell him to leave."

"Just get on the counter…..you will too fit."

"Hey, there are five of us, we'll make you fit."

"Lie down."

"Watch your head."

Emma glanced over at the table of abandoned kids. They sat obediently with Mikey calmly eating their ice cream, ignoring the fact six large men and one small woman were all crowded into a bathroom designed for no more than two normal-sized adults.

People around her yakked on. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes out loud. Good Grief people. They're men. Just men.

She remembered the time she and Mikey had gone to the base to pick up her dad and they'd gotten there early and Mr. Blackburn – Commander Blackburn – had taken them onto the base to watch the team run practice drills in full combat gear and kits.

If these people - from teen's to grama's - thought the men looked large and buff in tank tops, t-shirts, and shorts, they should see them with vests and backpacks and ammo clips and knives and belts and machine guns and goggles and helmets and earphones and gloves and boots and whatnot.

That's when they should see the team – all dirty, gritty, grimy and sweaty.

But no one in this room would ever see that and she was forbidden to talk about it...She felt a warm flow of air against her knee, looked down into liquid brown eyes. Cerberus. And he didn't understand why she wasn't greeting him.

"I think he likes you." Trudy giggled. "What a beautiful dog."

Emma sighed, petted the silky head, scratched his ears. "Hey buddy." She cooed, lowered her head for a kiss. "They have you out in this heat?"

"They're, uh, causing a scene." Trudy complained. "Not even watching their kids."

Oh, Emma knew why they weren't worried about their kids. They knew she was there and if any issue arose that Mikey couldn't handle, they knew she would intervene. Ugh, one of the problems of insisting she was an adult.

Everyone in the parlor was openly staring at the bathroom. Everything being said could be heard and more than one customer felt a little bad for whoever in the bathroom was being threatened over losing his pants, being picked up, being held down, being forced into submission.

A bang, a thud, the door shimmied. There sure was an awful lot of activity going on in that bathroom. Hands waved, feet kicked, elbows nudged, heads bobbed. Someone or another got shoved out on the room, pushed their way back in and someone else got shoved out. Occasionally a head popped out, checked on the kids, ducked back in.

A curse, a soothing word, a yelp.

"Clay, lie down and stay still, or I will embarrass you in front of everyone out there in that room! Do you want that?"

"And you'd do that how?" Someone – Blondie probably – sneered.

"I won't do this in the privacy of the bathroom. I'll have you carried out to the other room, held down on a table…..go ahead, try me." Pause. "Don't look at him for help…..not gonna work."

Emma knew who was pinned down the counter, watched between arms and shoulders as Clay, who was on his back but up on his elbows, held his half-reclined position for another couple seconds, then broke eye contact, went flat on his back….and yes, he did fit on the counter.

By now, she knew their voices.

Oh yes she did. Trent was the one giving orders this time and no one – not Sonny, who was the first to defend Clay; not her dad, who could order any of them to do anything or not do something; not Ray, who always tried to keep the peace; not Brock, who Clay always turned to for comfort – would go against the medic when one of them was hurt.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!"

Except Lisa Davis.

"Trent, stop being a bully! And don't you snarl at me Sonny Quinn! I'll slap that sneer right off your face. Clay, doll, I've seen everything you have before, ain't a big deal, just take off your jeans. Here now Brock, no need to blush, I've been swimming with you too. Really Jason? Put a stop to this right now."

"Just take him home."

"I will."

"Let me, I've got the mini-van…."

"You've got car seats."

"And you have a bike."

"Lemme alone."

"Got two helmets."

"For Pete's Sake, makes sense for me to take him."

"He's staying with me."

"I'm going home."

Silence.

"Shit Clay, how long has it been like that?"

"That's not good, right Trent?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Jay, why do you have him out?"

"Not outside the lines."

Trudy looked at Emma who still rubbed Cerberus's ears.

"Good God, they argue worse than their kids. You'd think..." Her attention was diverted as the party in the bathroom broke up and the blonde emerged first, ducking under multiple arms, zipping his jeans. That done, he finger-combed his hair, eyed the door like he was contemplating attempting a break for it.

Lisa, who had left the bathroom before Clay, met him in the middle of the floor, handed him a milkshake, patted his arm, sat down with the kids.

Five men stood with arms crossed, staring daggers across the room at their blonde escapee.

"I'm fine." Exasperated, Clay spit out the straw, waved away everyone who tried to follow him. "Trent…tell everyone I'm fine." He ordered tiredly, voice strained. His tongue sought out the straw, reclaimed it and resumed consumption. "Back off!" He warned around the straw between his teeth.

Trudy watched Clay walk. He was limping. The mere act of swallowing appeared to cause him pain. Was the ice cream too cold? Did it hurt his teeth? Did his jaw ache? Was his throat sore? Had he injured his chest somehow?

Was he coming their way?

She blinked when he pulled a chair from a nearby table, swung it around, plopped down straddling it, arms crossed over its back, ignored everyone around him.

Cerberus abandoned Emma for Clay.

The men who had started after him, thinking he'd been headed towards the door, held up when they saw him sit down alone at a table. All but one turned back to their table. No, the one with the backward ball hat, stood and stared, hands on his hips.

"Oh, he looks mad." Trudy shuddered.

Emma waved, gave a smile. Jason hesitated, conveyed a message with his eyes – don't let him leave – then took his seat at his table with Sonny and Lisa.

Emma's phone buzzed – text message. Shrugging, she picked it up, read it, glanced over at the occupied tables across the room – Trent.

"You can join us." She called to Clay.

Trudy's eye's widened. That was rather bold! She hoped the cute blonde let Emma down easy.

"What are you doing?" She hissed at Emma.

"I'm within eyesight." Clay said morosely. He didn't move for a few seconds, then got up and pulled his chair over to Emma's table, resumed his backwards position. He set the milkshake on the table, crossed his arms over the back of his chair, rested his chin – pouted.

"Uh, you have something to eat, Trent will give you something if you're in pain." She looked up, knew the scowl on Clay's face was not directed at her. "You hungry?"

Clay turned around, waved the Styrofoam cup in the air, but five men across the room shook their heads. Clay sighed, looked down dejectedly, crestfallen over their refusal to accept the milkshake as an approved meal for the consumption of pain meds.

"Toasted cheddar on sourdough?" Emma asked. "Not much on the menu here. Hot dog?" She sent a text back, put her phone down.

"Wait...wait…you….you know him?" Trudy asked. Everyone was staring at their table. "Geesch Emma, you….you're drawing attention!"

"I'm not doing anything." Emma snapped. This wasn't exactly what she had planned for the day, but when her dad was home, nothing ever went the way she thought it would. "People need to mind their own business."

"Jay, you good?" Ray asked. "Stop staring."

The kids were done eating, were starting to get antsy. Brock and Trent were cleaning up, it would soon be time to go.

"Dunno."

"Stop glowering at them."

"I'm not." Jason paused. "Am I?"

"Yeah, you are." Mikey spoke up. "Leave her alone Dad. She'll get mad, you embarrass her in front of everyone here."

"Jay, we're gonna go." Brock said. "You need me?"

Jason clenched his jaw. No, he didn't need Brock's help to handle Clay. Yes, he knew Brock had a way with the kid the rest of them lacked, Clay would talk to him, but no, he didn't need his help to deal with a sick, cranky Clay.

"No, go on." Jason said when he could speak without snapping. "We're good."

"We're gonna go too." Ray hoisted RJ to his hip, took Jameelah's hand. "You got him?"

Jason rolled his eyes, flipped Ray off, waved him on. "Yes, 'I've got him'." He retorted edgily. "Christ,"

Trent hesitated, but yeah, he was ready to go as well. He counted, wasn't sure all the kids he had with him were his, but he'd brought them so they'd go home with him.

"Call me." He told Jason. "There's a lot of swelling."

"Not outside the circle though." Lisa pointed out.

"It shouldn't be swelling like that." Trent paused. "Antibiotics shudda kicked in."

"Hasn't been that long." Brock said uncertainly. "Since he was bit, you know? Right?"

"He's due to see Doc tomorrow." Sonny said. "I'll be by to pick him up, you have a meeting, right boss?"

"Uh, yeah." Jason nodded. "See you 'round Davis." He added, seeing her car keys in her hand.

"Sonny?" Lisa waited, headed tilted towards the door.

Sonny didn't move, eyes on Clay. "Ain't ready to leave yet."

"So? What was that all about?" Emma asked Clay as Jason walked everyone out, returned Lisa's wave.

"Fucking mother hen me to death." Clay stirred the shake with his straw. But well, maybe they had a reason to this time. This last mission in a rain forest had ended with him seeking out Trent after they'd returned to their barracks.

_Trent removed a marker, shook it up and down – oh, a paint pen._

_"This won't wash off, feel free to shower." He began to outline the swollen patch on Clay's left thigh. "If at any time, that swelling goes outside this line….I will have you flown to Germany, you got me?"_

_"Uh….what?" Germany? Hell, home was closer! "Where?"_

_"Not playing Clay. You're gonna show me any time I ask to see your leg. Don't matter where we are or who we're with." Trent waited for the paint to dry. "You come up with a limp, you won't have to worry about pain. We'll have you off your feet and carry you."_

_"Goin' a little overboard, don't you think?"_

_"Bug bite that itched until you scratched it into a bruise?" Trent harrumphed. "That is now so swollen, you can't see your own kneecap? Nah."_

_"It itched!" Clay protested defensively. "A lot."_

"No reason why?"

Clay shrugged. "Apparently, you get bit by an unknown insect and scratch your leg until it bruises, it's cause for smothering." He sipped the milkshake. "You ignore it until it swells, you get grounded at your boss's house."

Emma smirked. "Aren't you inoculated against, uh, such things?" She waved a hand. "You know, vaccinations and immunizations? Even malaria, right? All of you?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "For what is known about, sure."

"But…you're okay?" She frowned. Her dad had assured her he wouldn't come down with some dreadful disease because he was protected by inoculations. "It….you….you're not contagious, are you?"

"Fucked up from the left side down." He looked up as Mikey brought the grilled cheese sandwich. "Swelling hasn't gone outside the black circle that is my doom, so…yeah, guess I'm still in possession of my freedom." He processed her last question. "Uh, no." He flashed her a smile. "They're watching me for a reaction to the medication, not the bite."

Satisfied, she moved on. "Uh, aren't you grounded?"

He rolled his eyes. "Meant, they haven't made me stay in the hospital."

"Oh," she grinned. "Worse places you could be confined to, you know."

"You know your dad." He high-fived Mikey. "Thanks bud."

"Trent left your meds with dad." Mikey told him. "If you're in pain."

Clay nodded and Mikey returned to the table with Jason and Sonny.

"You gonna eat that?" Emma asked.

"Don't really want it." But he picked up a half, nibbled at the crust. It was a good sandwich, the cheese was melted but not oozing out the sides, the bread was lightly toasted, just the right amount of butter, but the cheese was chalk, the bread was too dry, the butter too greasy.

Emma moved the plate away, glanced around the room, noticed most people had returned to their own business, resumed her conversation with Trudy, kept an eye on Clay.

Clay swallowed but the cheese stuck in his throat. A sip of milkshake washed it down, but he decided not to try and eat any more.

His thigh didn't exactly hurt, it was hard to explain. Weird, really. It stung, burned a bit, throbbed. He shifted his weight, thinking maybe the material of his jeans was rubbing the bug bite raw….frowned.

His thigh was numb. Yes, numb. How he knew that, how he could tell, he couldn't explain, but his thigh was _numb_. His knee twitched, almost a spasm and his shin and calf tingled.

He stretched his leg out, spread his thighs, rocked his weight onto his right butt cheek…nope, definitely numb. He didn't recall Doc warning him of that symptom!

He pulled his leg back, foot flat on the floor, bounced on his toes. The action brought tingling to his pelvis but his thigh still felt like it was asleep.

The denim irritated the bite, made it burn, so he stretched his leg back out, shook it all about but the numb feeling didn't lesson.

He closed his eyes….nononononono….this had to happen now? Here? He just bet the swelling had spread past the black circle.

"Ems?" He said quietly. He was afraid to get up, not sure if his leg would support his weight. The last thing he wanted to do was take a step and end up on the floor. He wouldn't see his apartment for a month. "Ems?"

Emma stopped talking, "What's wrong?"

He stifled a snort. Good God, how sad was it, his boss's daughter knew to ask, 'what's wrong', instead of, 'you okay'?

"Uh, could you…." He licked his lips, swallowed. "Get your dad?"

Emma stood up. She knew he meant go get Jason, not yell across the room. She didn't even have to step away from the table, she had her dad's attention as soon as she was on her feet. When she nodded in response to his raised eyebrow, he was on his way to her table.

"That…..wait, he's your dad?" Trudy whispered as the glowering man in the backwards ball hat came their way. "Jesus Emma!"

Clay tensed, braced for a reprimand, but none came. Jason laid a hand on his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Good cheese gone bad?" He teased, tone light. Clay glanced up, relaxed at the greeting.

"Leg's gone numb."

"I'm gonna need to see." Jason said quietly. "Need to know where we're headed, we leave here."

Sonny remained at the table with Mikey, didn't take his eyes off Clay.

"Uh, okay." Clay put his hands on the back of the chair, pushed up, gained his feet. He balanced on his right leg and swung his left around the seat….soon as he put weight on it, his knee buckled.

Jason prevented an undignified fall to the floor.

"I've got you." Jason said, somehow holding Clay and waving to Sonny who instantly appeared and propped up Clay's other side. "Easy."

"Not gonna puke, are you?" Sonny teased. "Don't wanna make a scene."

"Too late." Emma gathered the trash from the table as Clay turned into the hug from Jason, let his forehead rest on her dad's shoulder. "Dad?"

"He's okay." Jason assured her. "Thought we were gonna make it." He said to Clay. "You're tossing a reaction to the meds, Trent expected it."

"Hope that's all he's gonna toss." Sonny cracked. "Dizzy?"

Clay shook his head, pulled away.

Trent had been waiting for it, had expected it before now, it was the main reason Jason had taken Clay home with him and here it was.

"He's just tired." Sonny added, smiled at Emma. "Flight was long, he didn't sleep much." He gave Clay's shoulder a playful punch. "You know how he reacts to some medications and the antibiotic Doc put him on is a new one."

"What does he mean, you know?" Trudy asked. "Emma?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have brought him out for ice cream." Emma lectured.

"He wanted a milkshake. Shake it out." Jason held Clay steady while he tried again to test his weight on his leg. "Any better?"

"Then text me and ask me to bring him one home."

"Wait….Emma…..home? Do you know him? Him?" Trudy pointed to Sonny, then Clay. "Like, he's living in your house, know him?" She was quiet. "Can't believe he's your dad. He's your dad!"

"Going down." Clay said thickly, fisting Jason's shirt. He held his left leg off the floor and neither Jason or Sonny tried to keep him on his feet or return him to the chair. They simply held him and guided his descent to the floor.

"Leg feel better stretched out?" Jason asked.

Clay shook his head, bit his bottom lip. Palms flat on the floor, arms behind him, he pulled his left leg close. That made his balls go numb, so he stretched his leg back out. That cramped his hip, but it was better than numb balls.

"Shake it out." Jason again, Clay obeyed. "Any better?"

"No."

"Lie back." Sonny was reaching for Clay's zipper. "Hottest freaking day of the year, you wear denim." He shook his head. "Lift your hips."

"Don't have shorts….." Clay went back on his elbows, let Sonny pop the button on his fly. "….with me." He hiccupped. "Don't yank on the zipper!"

"Sorry," Sonny flashed him a grin, a bit bothered that Clay was no longer protesting where he was and what they wanted to see. "You didn't take any pain meds, not gonna hurl, are you?"

"The bathroom's right there." Trudy pointed across the room. "It isn't occupied…..oh, okay then." She blushed, the zipper down, Jason tugged the jeans from Clay's hips. "Just, uh, you know, take his…..holy shit!" She clapped her hand over her mouth.

Emma glared at her, hissed for her to shut up.

Sonny sat back on his haunches, glanced at Jason. "Been what? Ten minutes? Fifteen?"

"Guessing the swelling wasn't outside the black line ten minutes ago or you never would have let him out of the bathroom." Emma said.

"Dammit Clay," Jason sighed, rubbed his forehead, thumbed an eyelid closed, held it for a split moment. "You're on medication to prevent this!"

"Don't think it's working." Sonny said.

"I see that!" Jason flared up.

This couldn't have happened while Trent had still been there?

"Not working and he's throwing a reaction to it." Sonny tousled Clay's tangled curls. "Why you can't just get Malaria like a normal person, geesch."  He teased.

"I don't….feel so good." Clay said weakly, pushed damp bangs of his sweaty forehead with a damp hand. "Can we go?" If he lost the battle with his stomach, he didn't want to be here on the floor when he puked. And man, he was sweating. Oh God.

"Sure." Jason said easily. "Ready to get up?"

"Mmm." He for a minute, didn't move then reached his hands out to Sonny, who took one and stood up. Jason took hold of Clay's other arm and together, he and Sonny had Clay on his feet - foot.

"I've got you," Sonny said soothingly. "Pull your pants up."

Emma saw the black circle of paint that the swelling was suppose to be within. She could also see the swelling had extended down to his knee and past the hem of his boxer briefs. It still remained within the sides of the circle, however.

But that didn't matter. The swelling had spread, the antibiotics weren't helping, might be doing more harm than good and Clay looked ready to pass out. He kept his feet because Sonny held him.

Since Sonny was supporting Clay's left side, it was Jason who helped the kid pull his jeans to his hips and zipped the fly closed. He didn't bother with the button.

"Hospital?" Sonny asked Jason. "Text Doc?"

"I'll take Mikey home." Emma told them. "Feel better Clay."

"Can….I sit down for….a minute?" Clay asked, wobbling on one foot despite Sonny's firm hold. "Please?"

Jason turned the chair around, and Sonny let Clay down carefully. Soon as he was seated, he extended his leg, rested his foot on his heel, gave his foot a jounce.

"Still numb?" Jason asked. "How's it feel?"

"Like….when its asleep and its waking up….yet….I can't feel when I do this." He jounced his leg again. "But it gives me pin pricks in….uh…" He glanced at the girls, made a motion with his hand, pressed his thighs together, let them spread. "I, uh, pull my leg up…..the swelling…."

"Family jewels?" Sonny guessed, chose a phrase he didn't think girls of Emma's age had ever heard before. "Swollen?" He winced. Had the swelling had extended that far?

"Numb." Clay corrected.

"Due to the swelling." Jason supplied. His hand went to Clay's forehead, then the back of his fingers went against the kid's cheek. "Man, I really thought after you were good on the flight home, and slept through what was left of the night, we were ahead of this."

"Sorry."

"Fever?" Sonny asked. Jason nodded. "Really?"

"He's warm." Jason confirmed verbally since Sonny needed to hear the words spoken. "Guessin' IV antibiotics it's gonna be." Jason watched him pick up his milkshake, put it back down. "All gone? Want another?"

"Yeah, the cold tastes good."

"I got it." Sonny ruffled his hair. "Mint chocolate chip?"

"Just vanilla."

Sonny nodded, moved off to the counter. Jason pulled his phone, sent a text. The reply had him eyeballing Clay, weighing a decision. Decision made - he was not going to make the kid undress again so he could take a photo of the swelling - he replied back.

"Taking me in, aren't you?" Clay resisted the urge to cross his arms on the table and bury his head. "Do you have to?"

"You have to ask?"

"Can't I just….go home? Go to bed?"

"Nope."

Mikey was with Sonny when he returned. Clay took the milkshake, drank half so quickly Emma was sure he had brain freeze.

"Doesn't that give you brain freeze?" Trudy asked.

"Kills a headache." Clay replied distantly, rubbed his eyes.

"So does holding ice against the roof of your mouth." Sonny snarked.

"Ice cream tastes better." He held the cup with his right hand, reached for Jason with his left. "Guess I'm ready."

"Call me." Emma said. "You're bringing him home, right?"

"If they don't keep him, yes." Jason let Clay sling an arm around his neck. "He's still grounded."

Clay looked so miserable that Emma decided to be the bigger person.

"I'll change the sheets on my bed, he can have my room." She said. "I'll sleep with Mikey tonight."

"It's gonna be a while." Jason warned. "IV meds take hours to drip through."

"Ems, you don't….." Clay began but Jason planted a kiss on Emma's cheek. "Can leave me there, come back…" He was silenced by a squeeze from the arm around his waist.

"Be good for your sister." Jason gave Mikey a one-armed hug.

"Come on, hop-along." Sonny was saying to Clay. "….doubt you wanna go on my bike….."

Emma watched them leave the ice cream parlor, tossed her trash.

"Ready?" She asked her brother.

"Emma, you have some explaining to do." Trudy joined her. "That was your dad?"

"Yup."

"Who were the rest of them?"

Emma shrugged. "His uh…."

"They're from his platoon." Mikey said easily. "Didn't Emma tell you, Dad's in the Navy?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, epic failure. The chapter on Sonny became multiple chapters, on…surprise!...Clay…..what can I say? It'll be a separate story with, a chapter on Sonny, and the story on Clay. Woe me…

"Mmmm." Emma scooped more strawberry ice cream onto her spoon. "Poor Trudy." She sighed over-dramatically. "Any wonder why Hannah is pretty much my only friend?"

Jason snorted. Emma laughed. Yeah, it was an absurd statement.

There was a time double-dipping with six other people would have sent her to therapy, but now…after hearing what these men went through, how they lived on top on one another, what they shared….the thought to be grossed out over it, didn't even cross her mind.

She cast a glance in Clay's direction. It hadn't escaped her notice that everyone occasionally looked his way, found a reason to walk by him.

"...Stella..." Someone was saying. "...leave him..."

She swallowed, choked on the ice cream.

Clay's ex-girlfriend. She'd blamed her dad for their break-up because Stella had found herself on Jason's shit list and had never found her way off it. It had been Sonny, after her mom had died, who set her straight. She didn't care about Clay and Stella's relationship. She didn't care the older woman had broken Clay's heart, but she could not, would not, ever forgive her for choosing to break up with him when and how she did.

Clay's job was making sure her remaining, living parent returned home alive and well and all in one piece and splitting his focus like Stella had, was, in Emma's eyes, unforgivable.

"…wouldn't be such a pansy-ass….." someone was saying, calling attention to the fact, Emma wasn't listening. "…..bruise….."

"….some swelling….I mean….it was water!"

"Yeah, your fault Jay."

"How the fuck is it my fault?"

_***Clay gets a new blanket***_

Clay splashed water on his face, turned the spigot off, reached for a paper towel to wipe his face and dry his hands, stared at his reflection in the mirror.

No wonder strangers looked at him in either sympathy or horror. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles. His cheeks were pink from a recently peeled sunburn, leaving shiny skin that would eventually tan, but until then, left his face looking like someone had slapped the shit out of him.

He balled the paper towel, tossed it into the trash can. He was hot, sweaty, tired – fah-king exhausted to the point he was uncoordinated and sluggish – not hungry and only wanted to return to base and go to bed. Bravo had just come in from tracking some asshole Mandy wanted for interrogation in some mountain range in Turkey or maybe they were in Peru….hell, he was too tired to care.

It had taken three days to capture the dick and all he wanted was a hot shower, soap and shampoo. Bathing in a creek or pond attracted bug bites and leeches and he wanted an hour to scrub himself clean.

But once Bravo had hit civilization, the guys had opted to hand the idiot off to the unit that had met them, stow their gear and weapons in the van left for them to return to base in, and sit down for an actual meal of eggs and bacon and hot coffee.

Good luck finding bacon, Sonny ole pal.

His declaration he was a big boy and would ride back to base in the back of the transport truck with the military unit was pooh-poohed by both Jason and Ray – no going off on your own, they'd said – and he was told to sit down and eat breakfast.

No one had wanted to hear that breakfast over here usually consisted of cheese, bread and tea and that to get the American breakfast they wanted, they had to return to base.

Sonny had harrumphed and Trent had guffawed, Ray had said he'd feel better after some hot food and coffee.

He didn't want tea and cheese, he wanted a hot shower, clean clothes, bed. A storm was brewing – a typhoon Davis said – and the air was dead, still, oppressive. It was so humid and dense, he sweated as he stood staring in the mirror while throwing himself a pity party.

He opened the door, stepped into the alley – the bathrooms were outside the café at the back of the building – and was hit in the face by a fist.

Aw, fuck! Really? _Really?_ Some lame ass punk was going to jump him for his phone?

He staggered back, kept his feet by grabbing the door frame. He shook off the blow, ducked a second fist, charged forward. He was so not in the mood to engage in a fist fight simply over his phone and wallet.

He was struck in the back between the shoulders, staggered forward. If they'd been aiming for his head, they missed. His good luck. But that also meant there were at least two assailants. He whirled, make that three assailants.

A blow to his kidney drove him to his knees. He ducked and easily somersaulted, came up with both fists raised, whirled to confront the man attacking him from behind.

He was outnumbered, but he felt he could take three guys. The blows he sustained were taking a toll but these guys were not trained fighters. His head already hurt, his face was smarting from slaps and punches raining on sunburnt cheeks as he raised a foot, kicked a shin, slammed his head back into a face behind him.

With a howl, one of the two men holding him let go and Clay spun again. Before he could locate the man and throw a punch, he was hit by a force in his back so strong and powerful, it propelled him forward with such an intensity, he didn't even fall to his knees first. He went face flat to the pavement, his chin cracking the concrete and jarring his head sideways so violently, he wrenched his neck.

"How hard is it to grab one man?" The pressure eased and someone yelled angrily in a foreign language. "Get him!"

Not a random attack then, Clay thought dizzily as he fought to shrug off the blow the concrete had dealt to his face and stay conscious. Tasting blood, his head spinning, he pushed to his knees.

The force against his back returned, didn't let up, didn't relent, rolled him onto his side and when he raised his hands to protect his face and ward off any potential blows, pain erupted across his knuckles as his skin was sliced open.

He didn't know who or what he was fighting but instinct kicked in and he was in a fight for his life, that much he knew.

"Can you morons handle him yet?" Someone asked in the same language, one he understood easily. "Grab him!"

They tried, but again, Clay gained his knees, if he could get to his feet…..a second later, he was blown several feet back, landed hard on his shoulder. A kick to his gut laid him flat on the ground and the punishing force was back, harder than before.

"We don't have time for this! GET HIM! We've got to get out of here!"

Despite which way he rolled or moved or twisted, the force continued to chase and pummel him. It was unyielding, strong, punishing and was on him no matter what he did to get away from it.

It struck him everywhere, arms, legs, back, belly, side, even his feet. Took his ability to see, breathe, fight, move. The force was so strong it moved him bodily along the asphalt, rolling him away from the café that housed his team.

"Grab a foot and drag his ass! Christ! Do I have to do everything?"

Finally, exhausted, out of breath, unable to even raise his head, he laid sprawled on his stomach. He no longer possessed the strength to fight and this time, when hands reached for him, he remained limp and let them pick him up.

()

Cerberus sat up, pricked his ears, cocked his head sideways. One second, he was sitting at Brock's feet, the next he was a brown blur as he shot across the room, sailed effortlessly over tables and cleared the open window without a break in his gait.

"That can't be good." Sonny sipped tea, scowled as the other customers in the café expressed their disgust at a dog jumping over their table. "I want coffee."

"Never had him neutered, did you?" Ray admonished.

Brock smiled with a frown. Something wasn't right. He looked at Clay's empty seat, sighed, tossed his napkin, stood up.

"Where you going?" Jason asked.

Trent stood, waved a hand at the empty chair. "Clay ain't back, the dog took off. Do the math."

()

Clay was dragged off the pavement, lifted to his feet. He couldn't even lift his head, was desperately trying to open his one eye that wasn't swollen shut.

"CLAY!"

"Cerberus! Attack!"

A snarl, a cry of pain, a grunt, and Clay was dropped – he remained where he fell, didn't move.

"Spenser?!"

He was grabbed and covered, rolled and patted, picked up, carried, held. Hands were on his back, in his hair, feeling his belly, squeezing his fingers.

"Catch your breath!"

"You're okay."

"I've gotcha."

"His hands?"

"Easy, take it easy."

"Trent!"

"You breathing? Breathe kid. That's it. In and out. In and out."

"He's bleeding."

"Christ, look at his fingers."

"TRENT!"

"Can he go into shock in this heat?"

"Why's he so cold?"

"Trent?!"

He was wet, shivering, shaking, panting, gasping. Hands felt his thighs, his knees, his shins, his feet.

"Need a blanket over here!"

"Get the van!"

He was held still, arms wrapped around him, he was turned so his back was against a warm, dry chest. His head was held, his chin cupped, his jaw was held, moved side to side, pried open, fingers invaded his mouth, felt his teeth, poked the roof of his mouth, moved his tongue.

His cheeks were patted, his eyes thumbed opened one at a time. Fingers weaved through his hair, felt his neck, came around to his throat, rubbing soothingly.

"Is he okay?"

"Trent?"

"Talk to me."

Clay blinked his eyes opened, only one responded, the other having swollen shut that fast, squinted. His team was huddled around, staring down at him. He wanted to grin or raise a hand and give them a wave but his body wouldn't respond to the silent commands he was giving it.

His face was frozen, his mouth wouldn't work. It felt like his tongue was worming its way down his throat. He wanted to cough, gag, spit….couldn't. His chin, jaw ached so badly, it made his head heavy, hurt, made the right side of his face numb.

He couldn't stop shaking, couldn't move his hands, couldn't open his mouth. He blinked as his vision blurred….was he crying? Maybe it was panic….fear….or maybe it was just his body's natural reaction to trauma and pain. Or maybe it was just water dripping from his bangs.

Despite the warm temperature, he shivered, he was cold, he instinctively sought warmth….he was held against someone with warm, strong arms who hugged him protectively and once his head was released, he turned to nuzzle against the chest with his cheek, went limp.

"He pass out?"

Brock gave Clay a soft juggle, pulled back to peer down at the head buried under his arm.

"Think so, yeah."

Ray came running with a blanket from the van he'd pulled as close to the alley as he could get it.

"He okay?" He'd missed Trent's quick exam. " _Tell_ me he's okay."

"In for a world of hurt." Trent shook the blanket out, motioned for Sonny to pull Clay away from Brock who was reluctant to let him go. "You can let him go." He grinned. "Wake him up."

After repeated splashing with ice water, gentle shaking - no slapping, his face was bruised and swollen - his name repeatedly called, he finally responded. He was groggy, disoriented and either unable or unwilling to answer Trent's few, easy questions, so they bundled him in the blanket and carried him to the van where they settled him on the floor in the back.

"Yeah, uh, boss." Brock came up, shifted his weight from foot to foot, hesitated. "Cerb has a scent."

Sonny's ears perked up, he shut the door. He was torn over whether or not to return to the base and see Clay to the infirmary or follow the dog and see if they could locate whoever had done this to Clay, find out why.

Jason wanted to know how many there had been – he guessed four – who they were and why they'd tried to take Clay. It wouldn't have been easy for two or even three assailants to take the kid down.

"Pressure washer….no, fire hose….mounted...bed...of a truck..." Ray was saying. "Strong enough to keep him down, wear him out, not likely to kill him….."

"Just, you know, drown him." Sonny bit nastily.

"Pummel him from a distance." Trent corrected. "Can't fight a force of water that strong."

"Hard to get an advantage, he'd fight back."

"Right, take him out of the fight."

"It'd tire anyone out."

"Go." Jason said and suddenly, he was alone. Even Trent deserted him to chase down the men who, if found, would likely never walk right again.

He shook his head, pulled his phone, got in the van Ray had left running.

He turned from the driver's seat to check on Clay; still shaking, breathing hard, panting really, hadn't moved.

Jason reached out, laid a hand on his shoulder. Clay stirred at the touch, but didn't come around.

With a last pat, Jason turned around, put the transmission in drive, pulled out, thumbed his phone.

"Eric? Hey, problem."

***000***

Jason stood at the window, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, stared at the pane of glass he couldn't see through, the rain that hard and heavy. Or maybe it was the wind driving the rain sideways.

One minute, the skies had been clear and blue, it was sunny and hot, the next, black clouds, strong winds, then rain…..and now, a fucking typhoon or whatever the hell the locals called high winds and driving rain.

Rain slashed at the window and the pane rattled from the force of the wind but there wasn't any danger of trees falling on the building. Now, losing the roof was definitely a possibility. Or flooding.

Jason took a step back, glanced over his shoulder at Clay who was curled up in his bunk, uneasy, not asleep, not awake, not with it. He'd been seen and treated by the doctor, released from the infirmary.

He sighed, bet Trent wouldn't have agreed with that, but the doctor had said there was no need for the kid to remain. When he'd argued Clay didn't know his name or where he was, couldn't count to ten or get past the letter E in the alphabet, she'd assured Jason Clay would feel better after some sleep. Said she didn't blame Clay for not wanting to talk. His jaw, while not broken, was bruised and his chin was so swollen, his bottom lip looked like he'd been stung by angry bees. So yeah, said the quack, it hurt him to talk.

Trent was going to throw a fucking fit.

Jason had no authority here, his rank and status had no pull and Eric had gone off base, so all he could do was help Clay off the table and walk him back to their barracks. He really wasn't that upset about it, he wanted Clay with him.

He turned back to the window. Not much made him nervous, but stranded on a foreign military base in the worst impending forecasted typhoon since, like, 1976 without his team, had him on edge.

Clay hadn't been given anything stronger than prescription strength ibuprofen, so he didn't expect him to throw a reaction to anything. He'd shown no signs of a head injury or concussion, so Jason had no idea why the fuck he remained unresponsive and not with it.

Jason sighed, rubbed his eyes. They hadn't let the kid return to base with an armed military unit because they didn't like letting him out of their sights and he'd been jumped in the bathroom in the same fucking building Bravo sat in. And fuck Ray, who, had he been there, would have pointed out that Clay had been jumped in the alley, so not really in the same building as Bravo.

His pocket sang 'you better think' by Aretha Franklin – eh, Davis. Man-o-man, he loved this new phone that his son had programmed so everybody was identified by a song and he knew immediately who was calling. Loved it!

Jason pulled his phone, growled. "What?"

"How's he doing?"

"He's fine Davis." Jason sighed irritably. He wasn't, not really, but he would be. Jesus Christ! Clay was sore and bruised, not broken. The base doctor had said so!

"Did the blanket work?"

"What?" He cast a glance over his shoulder as Clay stirred, tried to come up on one elbow, failed with a groan.

"Brock?" He slurred, raised a hand after several attempts, used the heel of his hand to dig at his eye that wasn't swollen closed.

"Go to sleep." Jason barked, rolled his eyes, rubbed a hand down his face as Davis yakked in his ear about a fucking blanket.

"Uh," Clay blinked. He was sleepy, befuddled, confused but that most definitely was not Brock. Brock didn't yell at him. "Cold." He lowered his arm, patted a limited area of the bed for the blanket with the only two fingers that would move. He slowly rolled his head so he could look out the window, squinted in confusion. "Ow!" He bit his lip, neck muscles protesting the movement. "It's night?"

"It's 3 o'clock, go back to sleep."

Clay blinked at the tone, went flat. He kinda thought, maybe, there would be someone else in the room with him, but nope….he could only see and sense Jason...and his boss was blurry and shimmered sickeningly.

*sigh*

Yay. Not.

He turned away, hoped that if he closed his eye, the dizziness would abate, his head would settle and his stomach wouldn't revolt. He swallowed, broke out in a sweat, shivered. Okay, was gonna take some work.

"Anything else….huh? No, you don't need to come over….why? Look out your window." He gritted his teeth. "Yes, I see the fucking blanket….what? What the fuck difference does it make what color it is?" Jason shoved a hand through his hair. Christ! He turned from the window, looked over, noticed Clay hadn't retrieved the blanket that had fallen to the floor. "It's blue….blue…" He huffed in annoyance. "Blue Davis, is blue." He walked to the bed as she yakked on, picked it up from the floor, tossed it on the bed. "Then dark blue!"

Clay gritted his teeth, held his breath, managed to pull lamely at the blanket. He wanted it over his shoulder and tucked around his toes because he was cold, he only wore a t-shirt and his boxer briefs - was able to cover his hip.

No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not force his arm to move the way he needed it to and his wrist, capable of limited movement, would not bend. A moment later, he gave up with a sigh that could have been interpreted as a whimper.

"Linus has his fucking blanket, happy?" Jason snapped. He plucked the blanket off the bed made a great show of shaking it out, tossed it over the kid from chin to toes. "There? Tucked chin to toe. Good enough? Or you want a picture?"

"…..wait…..you said blue?" Davis was saying, Jason clenched his jaw.

"Are you still on that bloody blanket? Christ Davis."

"Hey you, lose that tone or I'll come over there and slap you." Lisa warned without anger. "I left a grey blanket on the bed nearest the door, it has a diamond design. Do you see it?"

"No!" He looked around, crossed the room. "I'm beat Davis, lemme go."

"Tell me you see the blanket."

"Got it. Can I go now?" He asked sarcastically, picked up the blanket, cursed. "The hell's this shit."

Lisa sighed, boy, was Jason ever in a mood. Likely the storm and his team, you know, in jail for causing a disturbance in the middle of the street when they'd caught the men who had jumped Clay.

Eric had left to handle the situation…..retrieve Bravo from local police custody and obtain the transfer of the men responsible for Clay's condition to the military base. Even though he'd managed to get Bravo released, they hadn't been able to return to the base due to flooding and the four men were to remain in jail until the transfer could be completed.

They were holed up at a hotel waiting for the time the base was able to retrieve them. It'd be a while.

"You sure you don't want me to come over? Is he hungry? You think he wants something to eat?"

"What? No, he's not hungry." In no way did he want to venture out in the weather but he'd make his way over to the small, but adequate mess hall before he'd let Davis go out in it.

His phone buzzed and he pulled the phone from his ear to see who was calling.

Trent.

Of course.

"I need you, I'll call." Jason bit out. "Let me go, Trent's calling in."

"Use the blanket!" She ordered before he hung up.

When Trent had last called, Jason had been at the infirmary with no information to relate. When he'd returned to the barracks, he'd called Trent with an update, but the call had gone straight to voicemail so he'd left a short message.

Trent would want to know what the doctor said in detail, would want to interrogate the poor woman, would light her up for releasing Clay. He wouldn't care she'd informed Jason she was a doctor, Trent a mere medic. As bruised and swollen and stiff and sore as the kid was, when Trent returned to base, the doctor was in for an 'epic fit thrown by a mere medic'.

Eh, if Ray was bothered by it, he could go reign Trent in, Jason wasn't going to do it.

"How is he?" Trent asked. "You said she didn't keep him. The hell's the matter with her? He back in barracks with you? What did the doc give him for pain?"

"I'm good, thanks." Jason retorted with heavy sarcasm. "Barracks are still standing, still has a roof, hasn't flooded."

"If you weren't fine, you wouldn't have answered your phone." Trent bantered back easily. "Clay didn't answer his, so, he puking in the john, passed out on the floor or is he asleep?"

"He's asleep." Jason sat down on his own bunk, Cerberus came to nudge his way onto his lap, and he lowered a hand to rub the dog's ears.

Trent paused. "We're probably gonna hafta ride the storm out here. No one can come get us until the weather lets up."

"Jesus Trent, he's a grown man." Jason huffed. "He's fucking fine."

"Just, he….."

"The hell's with you? Sonny can have bone sticking out and Ray can upchuck his innards, you have nothing to say. Let Clay get a bruise and….."

"A bruise? Geesch Jace, he's lucky his skin wasn't flayed from his bones." Trent retorted. "Pressure washers can cut through tendons. The kid hurts. Can he open his mouth? His jaw has to be swollen to both ears."

"He's fine!" Jason chuffed impatiently. "The doc said so, released him." Dammit, Trent just had to be right! Clay could probably open his mouth enough to suck on a straw, that was it.

"Did she draw blood?"

"Yes."

"Give him any pain meds?"

"800mg Motrin."

"Nothing stronger?

"Gave me some Demerol, if ibuprofen doesn't hold him."

"50mg right? Too high a dose and he's gonna heave."

"I know."

"Any muscle relaxant? You….."

"Skelaxin."

"It makes him muddle-headed."

"I _know_." He said bitingly.

"Pain meds and muscle relaxants can…."

"Anything else?" Jason cut it abruptly.

"Davis been over?"

"No." Jason said shortly.

"I'll start walking back, you need me."

"Fuck you!"

Silence.

Jason sighed. Frustrated, he thumped the back of his head against the wall. Of course, that bothered Clay, who stirred with a murmur Jason didn't understand. "She offered to come over."

"She…I had her…..she….did she leave a blanket?"

"The heavy one?"

"It's a weighted blanket. Hoping it might give….." He went silent. Hoping it might give Clay some comfort, help him remain calm, get some sleep. "Did you give it to him?"

Jason cursed. "Enough with the fucking blanket!" He blew up. "I hear one more god-damn word about that god-damn fucking thing, I'm throwing it out into the rain."

"You have a number for Snow White?" Trent snarked. "Wanna let her know where she can find Grumpy," and he hung up.

Jason sighed, rubbed Cerb's belly, glanced over at Clay, frowned. Despite the blanket, he was still curled up on his side, a tuft of blonde hair all that was visible. It was a position Jason wasn't used to seeing the kid in, he was usually sprawled helter-skelter in the most uncomfortable positions a man could contort himself into.

"Think he's still cold?" Jason asked Cerberus. The electric was still on and the a/c ran, but by no means, was the room cold.

"Woof!"

"Yeah?" Jason got up, snagged a blanket off another bunk, shook it out, tossed it over Clay, caught himself tucking it snuggly around him, rolled his eyes, grinned. "Don't tell anyone." He told the dog.

"Woof!" Cerberus thumped his tail.

Jason returned to the window, thoughts of the grey blanket the furthest thing from his mind. Part of it was spite, part of it was his headache, part of it was he just didn't give it another thought, mind elsewhere.

The doctor had puffed up over being dictated to by a mere medic via Jason's mouth. And when Jason wasn't able to control a situation, he wasn't a pleasant person to deal with or be around. She'd really flipped her lid when Jason had said he didn't think she was competent, told her to call their team Doc back in the states.

No broken bones, no internal injuries, his fingers would heal without a problem. Sure, he'd be sore for a while, in some pain, but bruises would fade, ice would help swelling abate, cuts would heal. He'd be able to eat soft foods by morning, able to chew in a couple of days.

Looking at the kid now, Jason wasn't so sure. What made the pit in his belly grow was, if not for the dog, Clay would have been taken. He swallowed hard, made a mental note to get Cerberus one of those elk antlers he loved so much but Brock refused to pay the price for. 'Cause, yay Cerberus.

Shit.

Jason didn't think there was a spot on the kid that wasn't bruised, cut, sliced, swollen, bleeding or oozing. He could barely move. Jason had had to help him leave the infirmary, walk to their barracks and into bed where he didn't dare leave him alone. If the storm broke a window or they lost the roof, or their quarters flooded, Clay, drug-addled, dopey, in pain with the potential to throw a reaction, wouldn't be able to get out on his own.

Clay stirred with a moan, pulling Jason out of his funk.

"Hey." Jason called softly, wondered if the howling wind and rattling windows disturbed him.

"Brock?" Clay murmured huskily. He tried to stretch his right leg out, couldn't, moved his feet restlessly. "Ow." He moaned into his pillow. "Uh...ggg."

"No."

Silence, then. "Trent?"

"Just me." Jason replied after a moment. Clay always asked for Brock, then Trent, never anyone else.

Silence.

Clay never turned to him for comfort or protection or sought him out for safety and security like he did Brock and Trent and it had never irked him until right now.

When Trent was tense, emotional, upset or scared, he called his boss 'Jace'.  
When Ray was annoyed or angry or trying to make a point, he called his boss 'Jay'.  
When Sonny was uncertain, admitting to mischief or his previously kept silence led to a problem, he called his boss by name 'Jason'.  
When Brock was hurt or insensible, he called his boss by any variation of his name.  
But Clay? Oh now, it was always Bravo One. Not Boss or Chief, never his name.

Either Jason had never noticed before or it hadn't bothered him, but now, here, alone….it sure as hell bugged the shit out of him.

'Cause Clay might not know where he was, what happened, why he felt the way he did, but it was Brock he was looking for, who he wanted, who he expected to be there.

Jason had a fairly good idea Clay would suffer quietly – would ask for nothing. Not pain meds, not ice, not a blanket, not water – if he understood that the only person with him, was Bravo One.

Course, he was assuming the kid wasn't under the influence of meds. No one ever knew how he was going to react when he took a medication he hadn't been given before or combined medications.

His life before Bravo was a mystery that Trent and Doc were investigating. Jason had no interest, didn't care. All that mattered to him was whether or not the kid could do his job and he'd proven he could so Jason was satisfied.

Cerberus jumped down, padded over to Clay, licked his cheek until Clay raised a hand to pet his head. His aim was off, only two fingers moved, found Cerb's nose, but it was enough to satisfy the dog who sat down, turned to look at Jason, woofed.

Great, even the dog thought him incapable of making Clay feel better.

Clay tried to pull his thoughts into obedience. He wasn't having much luck. He knew he didn't feel well, knew he hurt, thought the pain bearable, but was unaware the pain was dulled due to medication.

The dense atmosphere, the heavy weight of the clouds and winds that made the air thick, the pounding, driving rain made him uneasy but he didn't know why or that it was doing so.

Jason was surprised Clay didn't settle back down, grew increasingly restless. Wondered if the kid was waking up or the meds were wearing off or if he was suffering a reaction.

"Hey," Jason got up, walked closer. It'd only been just over an hour; prescription strength ibuprofen shouldn't have worn off this soon.

Clay tried to stop trembling, but his efforts made his teeth chatter, so he gave up. He didn't know if he were shaking because he was cold, uncertain over the storm, or the lack of the feeling of safety.

Tears pricked his closed eyes when he thought of his best friend and the accident that had claimed his life. Where had that thought come from? Was that the last time he'd felt….safe? He squeezed his eyes tight, felt the pull of swollen skin, gasped.

"Hey, relax." The voice, while familiar wasn't comforting, didn't offer the security he craved. "Just the wind."

Uh, no…just pain.

Why couldn't he remember what had happened to make him feel like someone had pummeled every inch of his skin with a ten-pound meat tenderizer?

"Trent?" He groaned, tried to shift his weight but neither his shoulders nor his hips joined his effort to roll onto his back. And his abs attempted to stab him over the attempt.

Jason clenched his jaw, ground his teeth. "He's not here."

Clay was quiet…..well, he didn't speak again. His breath came in little, hitched, quick gasps. His hand clenched and bunched and released the blanket. Now and again, he groaned or whined and Cerberus came to nudge under his elbow, licked encouragingly.

Jason tolerated it for maybe ten minutes. Cerberus had a paw on the bed, woofed, nudged again and Jason finally approached the bunk.

"What? You wanna roll over?" Please God, don't let him get sick. The kid would likely pass out from the pain, he tried to throw up and then Jason would have to worry about him choking. "Safer on your side….no? Okay."

He rolled Clay onto his back, guiding his shoulder, rolling his hips, pulled his leg to drag him to the center of the mattress. The motion left the kid panting, biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.

"Can you hold out a little longer before you take more meds?" Jason asked. "You've had ibuprofen and a muscle relaxant."

Clay sniffed, rubbed his good eye with a knuckled fist, gave a slight nod. Jason sighed, the kid still shook and shivered despite the two blankets.

He thought about turning the a/c off, but that would make the room stale and stuffy and he'd soon be sweating.

"Woof!"

Jason reached for the grey, heavy blanket. He didn't know what the big deal about it was, it had to weigh 15 pounds, but whatever.

He shook it out, had to be at least a queen size, snapped it over the bed, let it fall over Clay. Cerberus jumped onto the bunk, settled between Clay's feet.

Jason reached across the bed to make sure Clay's shoulder was covered, paused to pet the dog to assure the canine he wasn't going to make him get down and when he went to stand up, his pants leg was snagged on something.

Clay had a firm hold, the material twisted in his clenched hand, so Jason sat down on the bed, assumed the kid would fall asleep and let go.

Twenty minutes later, Clay finally felt safe, slept peacefully – no more whines or whimpers or groans because he tried to move, the shivering had ceased, he no longer bit his lip – Cerberus snored and Jason had yet to free his pants.

All he knew was, this blanket was going everywhere they went from now on. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And no, there is no reason or order in any of these chapters….some may and some may not, refer/relate to any other story I've written.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done!  
> All the tidbits and loose dangling ends bouncing around my head, are tied up!

* * *

Emma looked across the lawn to the hammock where Clay still slept. So, that explained the blanket despite the warm evening. It wasn't a weighted blanket, just a lap-sized fleece, but if a simple piece of cloth gave him that much comfort, helped him sleep, she would never deny him, should he ever ask her for one.

"That ain't what did it." Eric argued.

Emma had no idea what 'it' was, but everyone else did because there was laughter and high-fives and back-slapping all around and Lisa tweaked – _tweaked_ – Jason's nose.

"I think it's time we wrap this party up." Jason said hastily.

"Oh no." Emma protested. "Did Clay ever learn to call you by name?"She'd heard Clay call him Boss, Bravo One, Chief, refer to him as her dad...but by name? She frowned, no, she didn't think so.

"Learn?" Lisa shook her head. "It's a matter of feeling comfortable, and yeah, he did."

"Well?" Emma demanded when no one ventured forth the name. "Don't leave me hanging."

"Jason." Her dad answered.

"That's it?" She said doubtfully.

"Not too many ways to say my name." Jason got up to trash the ice cream container.

"But not that time." Eric said. "Was the job in Sinai."

It was growing late, going on 2 a.m., the ice cream was gone, the supply of beer depleted. Of course, Jason had more, but his guys were driving home, so yeah, everyone was cut off.

Clay had probably slept off his binder by now, would wake with a headache, dry mouth, cotton for a tongue, but he'd be alright. Not like Bravo was in danger of being spun up and sent out. Nope, they were grounded to home base until further notice, running drills, training other platoons, filming training videos in mock missions.

And didn't Delta and Charlie just love their rotation being shortened a week, probably for the summer. Eh. Tough shit.

"What'sa matter Boss?" Trent teased. "Yeah, calling you out dude." He clinked bottles with Brock, both finished the last of their beer. "That mission was fucked up from the moment we landed." Ray bristled, but Trent waved him down. "Yeah, you were fucking stupid, but you didn't do anything wrong, move on."

"Well," Sonny hedged. "He did, but...I mean, so'd I...we knew better, it was Clay."

"I'd say, that was the night you all accepted you had a kid with a talent for finding trouble, getting hurt, being sick." Eric finished his beer. "Coffee?" Lisa nodded, got up, went to make a pot. "A kid that would do anything if it meant saving the life of someone he cared about."

"If only he had more sense."

"If only he thought about his own safety first."

"If only he had as much empathy for people as he does animals."

_***Clay's officially 'adopted' by Bravo***_

Ray glanced around, snapped his gaze back to the team medic, that all-to-common dreaded feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. Trent was pale, repeatedly licked his lips, stared at the floor.

"What?" Ray demanded. He worked hard to keep his voice even and steady, keep his nervousness at bay.

"That's a lot of blood." Brock said uneasily, picking up the vibe from Trent that maybe it was _too much blood._

"Too much." Trent managed, swallowed hard. "No one survived losing that much blood."

"But...possible, right?" Sonny disagreed weakly.

Trent shook his head.

"People, uh...defy odds all the time." Brock ventured. People = Clay. The kid had an astounding ability to heal quickly and avoid serious injury. "Right?" He added hopefully.

Trent shook his head.

"We don't know if it's Spenser's." Ray said briskly. "Pull it together, we gotta roll."

"We know someone is dead." Sonny snapped. "Give us a minute."

"It could be more than one person's blood, right Trent?" Ray prompted. "Trent? Right?"

"Right." But he wasn't convincing.

"Where's the body?" Brock looked around. There was no trail of blood suggesting someone had been dragged away.

"Chopped up. Dismembered." Trent finally looked away from the puddle of life sustaining red liquid on the floor. "And not long ago."

That didn't exactly make sense to anyone, but no one could bring themselves to ask for a more detailed explanation.

"How long," Ray pushed. "Is not long ago?"

Trent shrugged. "Five minutes."

Sonny whistled. "So, whoever did this, is still close?"

"We find them, chop off fingers, toes, wait a bit, feet and hands." Brock looked at Trent. "How long 'til they bleed out?"

"Would be a painful death." Sonny agreed. "What say you, Trent? Could you cauterize a vein or two? Prolong their suffering?"

"No. One. Is. Chopping. Up. Anyone." Ray bit out. "Let's move before we lose the trail." Good Lord, what was wrong with his men?

Trent slung his rifle around, hoisted his medical bag so that he wore it like a backpack, looked his 2IC in the eye, didn't blink. "I find this," he nodded to the puddle - pool - on the floor. "Was Clay, nothing you say is going to matter." He paused, then added in a tone everyone knew better than to fuck with, " _Ray_."

And he turned and walked away, crossed the floor, exited the room, the building.

"What he said." Brock snapped his fingers and Cerberus bounded ahead of Trent to take the lead.

"Don't look at me." Sonny raised one hand, the other supported his heavy automatic weapon. "I'm with them."

"There was a time, you wanted to strangle Spenser." Ray began, shook his head. "Just last month, I had to come between the two of you when you goaded him into throwing a punch."

Sonny gave his team leader on this mission - Jason had gone another direction with members from their support team - a sheepish, shit-eating grin, hoisted his gun for a better grip. "Kid packs a wallop."

"He busted your lip. He pulled his punch or you would have lost a tooth."

Sonny laughed. "Half the teeth in my mouth are implants."

Ray gave his next in command his best 'you better behave' look. "Seriously Sonny, what gives? Trent's talking torture, Brock - _Brock!_ \- is calmly discussing murder."

Sonny, uncharacteristically, was quiet, looked away.

"Sonny? It was separate corners, when did that change?"

Sonny pursed his lips, drew them back over his teeth, shook his head, adjusted his hat. "Reckon, membe, it had something to do 'bout when we took him to that clinic couple-o-days ago."

Ray nodded, oh, that. Yeah, he remembered _that_ debacle.

He and Sonny had been with Clay in the field, no one had been badly injured, but Sonny had required x-rays and Clay had needed stitches, so Ray had taken both to the local hospital.

Trent would later refer to it as a 'facility for every incompetent idiot who flunked out of med school in Mexico', because oh, he hadn't been happy.

He, Brock and Jason had been on the other side of town, Bravo split into two teams. They hadn't returned to base until after Ray had brought Sonny and Clay back. They'd come in, wet, muddy, dirty, tired and hungry, Trent had taken one look at Clay and Jason had had to get between the medic and Ray.

Trent hadn't wanted to hear anything Ray had to say. He'd been livid Ray had trusted the local hacks with any of Bravo. It was well known how much he distrusted third-world/foreign medical practices and yet Ray had gone ahead and not only taken Clay in, but had allowed him to be treated _**and** _left him alone.

Ray grimaced, rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't expected Trent's reaction and he sure as hell hadn't expected Clay to get sick from stitches but sick, he had got. Whew! Bravo had been totally unprepared for the reaction Clay had thrown to the medication the quack had given Clay after stitching him up.

And Ray hadn't been able to tell Trent what that had been. They had nearly come to blows.

Jason had had to get between them again and while Jason had been talking Trent down, Sonny had kicked the cot to wake Clay up and prove Trent was over-reacting. Clay hadn't moved. Irritated, Sonny had upended the cot, dumped Clay on the floor. Clay hadn't moved.

That had pissed Brock off, made Cerberus growl at Sonny, which prompted Sonny to snap at Brock who had told Sonny to go the fuck away.

Jason had decided it was best to remove Ray and Sonny, ordered Trent to 'see to the kid' and taken them to eat. Brock had stayed with Trent.

An hour later, Trent had come through the door of the mess tent and demanded to know whether or not Ray had bothered to stay with Clay while the doctor had seen him.

Ray had said no.  
Trent had flung his plate of dessert.  
Ray had got to his feet.  
Trent had demanded whether or not Ray had stayed with Sonny.  
Ray had admitted he had, until he'd been taken for x-rays.  
Trent then asked why, when Clay had the worse injuries, Ray had chosen Sonny.  
Ray had asked if Tent was questioning his leadership.  
Trent had said yes.  
Ray had told Trent he was out of line.  
Trent had asked what Ray's problem was with the kid.  
Ray had told Trent to stand down.  
Trent hadn't.  
Jason had gotten involved - again.  
Trent had asked what, if any, medication the quack had given the kid.  
Ray didn't know.  
Trent had asked what Clay had hurt his leg on.  
Ray couldn't tell him.  
Trent had told him to find somewhere else to sleep.  
Ray had told him Trent didn't have the authority to make him.  
Trent had left.  
When they'd returned to barracks; Trent, Brock, Clay and Cerberus were gone.  
Jason had found them in Eric's quarters, ordered their return.  
Eric had said to let them be, sent Jason on his way.  
Trent hadn't spoken to him since.  
Brock wouldn't even stay in the same room with him or Sonny.

"We cudda kilt 'im." Sonny drawled, laying his accent on thick to ease the tension.

Ray gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Wasn't that bad."

But yeah, maybe it had been.

After he, Sonny and Jason had left to go get something to eat, Trent and Brock had picked Clay up from the floor and Trent had discovered the stitches in his leg. He'd known Ray had let some quack at the kid but Ray hadn't said anything about stitches and he'd been rightly pissed that neither Sonny nor Ray had told him about it before they went to eat.

The wound was infected, red, swollen, oozing puss and clear, as well as yellow and green, fluids. Apparently, the wound hadn't been stitched properly, hadn't been cleaned or checked for debris, the proper thread hadn't been used nor had it been sanitized. The quack had simply stuck a needle through skin, pulled the thread tight; hadn't cared how deep he'd poked - evident by some stitches being deep, others barely beneath the surface of the skin, some not even in skin, others threaded through skin that hadn't required stitches, part of the wound left completely unstitched.

He and Brock had taken Clay to the infirmary on base, hadn't been happy with the medical staff, had cut the stitches out himself, properly cleaned the wound, removed dirt and threads from his pants, ensured there was no damage to muscle or tendons - which, hadn't even occurred to Ray - and stapled the wound closed, applied proper antiseptic ointment, wrapped his leg and taken him to Blackburn's quarters before confronting Ray in the mess tent.

But by then, even though it had only been a few hours, the damage had been done. Trent had been stunned infection had set in so fast, livid the kid hadn't received the proper care, angry Ray hadn't called or told him, pissed Ray had simply left the kid on the floor and gone to eat knowing he'd been hurt.

Trent could - and did - hold a grudge. He'd known he'd be up all night with Clay, hadn't wanted to be around Ray, hadn't taken the kid back to their barracks. The fact Blackburn was willing to let them stay with him and had gone against Jason's command, had upset Jason and an upset Jason always put Sonny on edge and the night had been a shit-show.

"You and I remember that night differently." Sonny hiked the heavy gun once more and began to trail after Brock and Trent.

Ray fell in step next to him.

He and Jason had insisted Trent return Clay to their quarters but with Blackburn on Trent's side, there was had been no way to make him. Clay had been a shaking, trembling, mess, thrashing about uneasily in the throes of a fever that didn't want to respond to any medication Trent felt comfortable giving him.

Neither Ray or Sonny were able to confirm what, if any, pain medication the doctor had given the kid. Clay had been alone when the doctor had stitched him up and since Ray had been in charge and had ordered him to submit, he had.

And Clay had been in no condition to tell Trent anything.

Trent and Brock, along with Eric, had spent the night watching Clay sleep, fight through delirium, Trent reluctant to give him anything he hadn't had before. His leg with the stitches in his calf, had ballooned up from knee to heel and he hadn't taken to being kept on his stomach so Trent could keep the stitches clean, ice applied and the wound bathed in cool water.

He'd fought them all night to roll over.  
He'd fought them to be allowed to hold his leg.  
He'd fought them to itch the stitches.

When insensible, Clay – clung. He wanted to be with someone, would hold tight to a shirt or pants leg, had to have something to hold. Trent hadn't fought him, let the kid crawl into Brock's lap. As long as Clay stayed on either his left side or belly, Trent didn't care what he did.

Eric hadn't teased or made fun or ordered them to return Clay to the infirmary. He'd given up his much more comfortable bed then the cots they'd been given, obediently fetched liquid Tylenol, juice, ice, soft cloths, blankets, whatever Trent had asked for, patiently helped the medic do what needed to be done to keep the infection in check, bring the fever down, make the kid comfortable.

When Ray and Sonny had finally made their way to Eric's quarters, Eric had opened the door, a towel over his shoulder, a plastic bottle with a pop-up top in his hand, an ice pack stuffed under one arm, chewing on a pretzel stick, demanding to know what they wanted.

Jason had said to let them in.

Otherwise, Ray was confident Eric would have ordered them to be on his way.

When Ray had questioned why Jason was sprawled on his back in Eric's bunk, Clay on his belly across Jason's lap, Eric had laughed, Trent and Brock had ignored him.

Eric had later told them, when Jason had come to his quarters to demand he send Clay back to Bravo's barracks, Clay's whining, whimpering, and mummering had ceased, he'd said 'Jace' and reached out for Bravo One. Jason had capitulated to damp bangs hanging in feverish blue eyes faster than a junkie shot up his next hit.

Two days later Clay, on his feet with no memory of that night, and Ray, suffering guilt and regret, had erupted into an argument. Clay, not knowing why but feeling the heavy air of discontent among the team was because of something he'd done or let happen, had blown up.

_"I'm gonna slap some sense into you." Ray threatened, hands curling into fists._

_Whoa!_

_Trent stepped forward, but Jason beat him to it, separated the two snipers._

_"You?" Clay sneered. "Gonna need help, old man."_

_"Okay, that's enough!" Jason yelled. "Separate corners! Clay, time for a nap, you're cranky. Ray, outside."_

_"He started it!" Clay shot back._

_"GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Jason roared._

_Clay didn't move, weighed his choices, wavered over his decision. Jason waited, was going to give him another three seconds then have Brock and Trent drag him there._

_Clay went on his own._

_Jason grabbed Ray by the shoulder, dragged him outside, threw him against the wall of the building, let him go._

_"What the hell was that?" Jason demanded._

_"That cocky little prick….." Ray began hotly._

_"What's the matter with you? Jesus Ray! Why do you edge him on?"_

_"Why do I….me? Wait! Just wait a sec!" Ray threw his hands up, moved away from the wall. "Are you taking his side?"_

_"His side? What is this, the playground?"_

_"Jay, brother, come on! You let him get away with too much shit."_

_"Ray, deal with it. Whatever this is, for the good of the team, get over it."_

Another day later, Clay showing no signs of injury despite the infected stitches and with Trent's approval, they continued their mission.

Ray sighed, shook the memories off, picked up his pace. Sonny was carrying a heavier load than him, the gun and its ammo not at all light, and here was Ray, lagging behind.

Somehow, someway, the kid had gotten under their skin, wormed his way close. Probably had something to do with the way he sought comfort when 'whacked', 'not with it', 'under the influence', 'sick and hurt' and never remembered it. Call it whatever the hell you wanted, the cocky, arrogant, mouthy little twerp had even won Sonny over.

Ray stopped, looked around, turned in a circle, saw and sensed nothing, resumed trailing Sonny. One thing he knew, despite his disagreement with Brock and Trent not five minutes ago, if they found a bag of body parts and among them was a blonde-haired scalp - because according to Trent, though how, Ray didn't know, someone had been violently murdered - this mountain side would be leveled, and the village the trail was leading them to, would become a parking lot.

Sonny, for all his bluster and bravo, had a weak stomach and if he were to come across body parts; a hand, eyes, a head without a face, severed fingers, genitals…he'd be puking in the bushes.

If for any reason, any of those body parts were identified as Clay Spenser, Trent would have to sedate the gun-toting Texan.

Up head, Cerberus erupted into a frenzy. Barking, not growling, so he wasn't attacking. He'd found something and it wasn't explosives.

Ray ran smack into Sonny's back. He huffed, straightened his boonie hat, stepped sideways, stood side-by-side with Sonny who stared straight ahead.

And there it was. Tossed to the side, off the path, half way down the hill, the bag that likely contained the body that had been chopped up.

So, Trent had been right. Insurgents or pirates or terrorists or whoever took hostages, filmed their capture and their death, had struck again and their 'how-the-hell-do-we-always-lose him' rookie might not be missing any more.

Brock called the dog who returned to his side, sat at his feet. He held Trent's backpack and rifle, gave him a firm hand from firm footing on firm ground as the medic went over the hill, and began to slip and slide his way down to the bag, let go.

Sonny looked ready to hurl or howl. Ray knew the hurly-burly man would be on his knees, bellowing in his grief if Trent confirmed what they all feared.

Ray swallowed, tried to speak, found his throat dry, the words stuck. Opening a bag and expecting to find grisly contents was bad enough, knowing the contents could very well be the man you called brother was enough to send the most sane, stable person over the edge.

Ray was going to puke, he knew it, stepped away from Sonny. God, please don't let Trent pull anything from the bag and hold it up, dangle it…if he did, Ray was pretty sure his spleen would make an appearance, be a pink, bloody splat on the ground at his feet.

Were spleen's pink?

He remained motionless, silent. Sonny was close, Brock and Cerberus nearby. Even the dog stared at Trent, waited.

Ray thought that odd, the dog should have either been frenzied or relaxed - he knew Clay's scent - but he was neither, he was anxious. Maybe he was picking up on Brock's mood.

Trent pulled his knife, cut the strings on the cloth bag, took a deep breath, pulled it open. He used a stick to poke inside, remained kneeling on his knees, finally sat back, tossed the stick, looked up the hill.

Ray was fairly sure he hadn't found Spenser inside the bag, if the medic had, he'd be doubled up on the ground, holding his stomach…..

"Woof!" Cerberus got to his feet.

"Not him." Trent got to his feet, drank some water.

"You sure?" Ray managed to get out as bile worked its way into his mouth.

Trent took a step, staggered, reached out for the nearest tree to support his weight. "Body is a black man."

"Just one body?" Brock asked, knees giving out.

"Just one…" Trent swallowed hard, moved behind the tree, was soon out of sight.

Ray supposed there were people in the world who would get their jollies out of seeing a dead body. There was that movie in the 80's about kids hiking out to see one. He supposed there were even people who would take delight seeing a bag full of body parts, remove them, play with them, but not Bravo. Never Trent.

He turned, moved off into the bushes, left Sonny to do….whatever.

Brock sat down hard, his stomach a knot. Relief the body wasn't their kids was short-lived because it meant, if they didn't find their missing teammate soon – like, 20 to 30 minutes soon – the next bag would indeed contain their blonde-haired, blue-eyed pain in the ass.

He looked up, breathing deep and heavy, struggled to keep his stomach settled. No one was in sight, he couldn't even hear them, but he knew they were close.

"Woof!" Cerberus padded away, waited, started forward again. "Woof!"

"Guys!" Brock surged to his feet. "Guys! We gotta go! Cerb has a scent."

()()()

Clay blinked, but try as he might, he could not move his head. He could see what was in his immediate line of vision from one eye, his head held flat on the ground from the pressure of a foot. He guessed, had he been able to move his head, he would be able to see out of both eyes, but since he was immobile, his left eye was a green blur and his right eye could only see booted feet.

He was quite familiar with those boots. He had their tread imprinted on his cheek, neck, shoulder, back, side and belly. He'd been stepped on, stomped, held to the ground and kicked by those boots numerous times.

Luckily, other than bruises, a couple sore spots, slight swelling, no damage had been done. No ribs were broken, he had no severe pain in his belly, no skin had been split open and the stitches in his leg remained untouched.

The three men who had captured him weren't exactly brutal – they didn't attempt to break bones or beat him unconscious – but they didn't show him any compassion either.

Well, crap.

The pace set by the captors was not unsustainable, but even without sun, the heat had worn him out. He was grateful the men weren't on horseback, forcing him to jog to keep up.

They didn't speak English, but that was okay, he spoke Spanish and he understood everything they said. He'd heard them discuss a camp of extremists who were recording the torture and murder of a man, felt a pang – not because of the man's demise, but because his team would believe it was him. And aw hell, his team probably thought he was held by that group...what if Bravo was following the wrong trail?

If he hadn't been taken hostage by the extremists group Bravo was in country searching for, who had taken him, and why?

His shoulder ached dully. It wasn't dislocated, but it protested the position his arms were tied in. It had previously been injured on a hike, aggravated in the fight that had led to his capture after he'd given up when a gun had been held to the temple of a child that had, thankfully, been left behind.

He knew he was dehydrating; they hadn't given him any water. The air was dead, made breathing hard, the oppressive, dense heat made him sweat. He laid still and sweat trickled down his back, pooled above the waist of his jeans, matted his hair.

The beatings, the fight, the heat, the long walk, the lack of water had all taken its toll. He was limp and listless and if they wanted him on his feet and moving, they'd have to drag him.

His mind wandered, he drifted in and out of lucidness. Time passed, how much, he didn't know. He hallucinated, dreamed, was dazed and confused when his arms, tied painfully tight behind his back, were grabbed and he was hauled to his feet.

His rest of was over.

He had trouble keeping his feet, felt himself slump. He was given a good shake, told to stand up and move, slapped hard upside the back of his head when he couldn't obey. His ear was grabbed, held, twisted. He yelped. Much harder and his ear would detach….it only took 8 pounds of pressure to rip off an ear.

He was ordered to remain silent, threatened with a gag. He didn't want that, he could barely breathe now, so he bit his lip and stifled any moan or groan of discomfort that tried to escape his abused, too-dry throat.

His knees buckled, he sagged, the attempt to hold him up by tight, punishing grips on both arms, failed and he crumpled back to the ground. They attempted to drag him but that didn't last, he was simply too heavy. So, they left him in a crumpled heap on the ground while they discussed what to do.

Cerberus stopped, pricked his ears, responded to the yelp of pain only he heard. He was off like a shot, Brock picked up his pace in a failed attempt to keep up with the canine. The dog handler didn't worry, whatever Cerb was after, couldn't be far away and when he found it, the dog would either bark in happy greeting or attack and all Brock would have to do is follow the sounds of screams, growls and snapping teeth.

His arms useless, his shoulder screaming, his vision - despite how many times he blinked - blurred, Clay used his feet to dig for purchase to push himself up on his hip...he'd just managed to sit up when a brown blur flew over his head - he instinctively ducked - and attacked the closest man to Clay, taking him down in a growling fury, tugging, ripping, shredding.

Screams erupted and the other two men first scurried away, then searched for sticks to beat the dog off their companion. They never had a chance to use what they found. One minute they were standing, yelling, waving...the next, they were each missing half their heads.

"Clay?"

He was grabbed, held, hugged, the touch firm and comforting, not bruising and hard. Hands felt him up and down; pat, pet and pat-pat. Someone spoke softly, told him he as okay, he was safe, he'd feel better soon. The ropes were cut from his hands, his wrists were massages, rubbed. He was hugged again, held close, passed from one set of arms to another until finally, he was pushed away, set aside and Trent was again, feeling him up and down and over.

His head was held, water was poured over his head, offered to him in small sips. His shirt was shoved up, the fly on his jeans opened, hands went in and around his zipper. He didn't fight, obediently lifted his hips, allowed their removal. He was felt up from his ears to his toes, fingers lingered on the bandage around his calf, but it was left alone.

Brock and Sonny made sure the two men were indeed dead before Brock called off the dog. Cerberus was reluctant to let go but eventually, he responded, came to heel.

"He's alive." Sonny stated, toeing the bleeding man in the hip. "Arm's still attached. Who's a good boy?" He tossed Cerberus a treat made of carrots and green beans. "Well deserved, my furry, four-legged little man."

Brock shook his head, wiped the dog down, checked him for injuries, gave him water.

"Trent? What we got?" Sonny asked. "Shut up." He gave the injured man a harder kick. "What you bawling for? Still got your arm." He glanced at the two dead men. "And your head." And he would remain alive because Mandy would have a lot of questions for him.

The name and touch familiar, Clay nuzzled his cheek against the hand than held his chin, felt safe.

"Gimme a minute." Trent was flashing a flashlight in Clay's eyes. "Show me your tongue."

Clay's eyes blinked against the light, his gaze drifted around and his eyes widened when he saw Sonny. He licked his lips, accepted the offer of water, turned to see who held the bottle….saw it was Brock and immediately reached for him.

"He okay?" Ray asked, juggled Clay, savored the heavy weight against his chest. "Sonny, call Blackburn, tell him we got him." He wasn't able to wait any longer for Trent to talk to him. "Trent, talk to us."

"Hey, we've got you." Brock said quietly, clasping and holding Clay's hand. "Just Trent man-handling you, you're good." Had Clay reached to come to him, he would have taken him, but he didn't attempt to move from Ray's lap.

"Stick your tongue out." Trent said again. "Clay?"

"Uh." Clay didn't respond. "Ow." He showed Trent his tongue. "Ow."

"Yeah, I know." Trent pushed him onto his side, swabbed his hip, stabbed him with a needle. Clay took shots better when they were injected into a larger muscle. The injection of a needle into his arm made it so sore, he couldn't move it without pain for a day or two - a symptom Trent had never encountered on any other living person before. "You'll feel better in a minute."

"Any ribs broken?" Ray asked.

"No." He palpated Clay's belly, pressed, poked, prodded, kneaded. "No signs of internal bleeding, he's just gonna be sore."

"Let's get him outta here." Sonny said. "Helo's on its way."

"Can he walk?" Ray asked.

"Not a chance I'm gonna make him." Trent retorted.

"Nothing broken, I've got him." Sonny handed his gun to Brock, squatted down. "Come here kid, up and over. No kicking me."

Ray pushed Clay forward until he was sitting up. He protested with a groan but his teammates weren't sure if it was because it hurt to move or because he didn't want to leave Ray's lap.

"Watch his shoulder, left." Trent advised. "He's touchy about it."

Ray didn't know how Trent knew that, but he didn't ask.

"Woof!" Cerberus started towards the clearing the helo coming to get them would likely land in. Most likely, he could hear it, knew what it was and what it meant.

"I….want….a…." Clay began. "Hot….ow."

"Yup," Sonny took the kid's arm, easily ducked and hoisted Clay onto his shoulder, stood up on his own. "Taking you for a shower. Lead the way Brock."

Ray fell into step beside Trent. "Kid okay?"

"Yup."

"Are you?"

Trent missed a step.

"Opening that bag..." Ray paused. "Even if we didn't have reason to believe Clay..." He slung an arm across Trent's shoulders. "Couldn't have been easy."

No, poking through a bag of chopped up body parts and organs and intestines was indeed, not easy.

"Just...thanks." Ray said sincerely. "For...uh, doing it."

Trent shrugged, hunched his shoulders. Ray moved his hand to squeeze Trent's neck, massaged gently.

"Hear the helo." Trent said, accepted the comforting touch, allowed it to remain as they followed their teammates to the exfil location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and this one is all wrapped up! Thanks for sticking with me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay…..Full Metal watches Clay, huh?  
> The humidity is upon on us here in Maryland, ugh…..

"They...do...that over there?" Emma asked somberly, eyes wide. "I mean, yeah, but...I just never...you...you see it?"

"Not that often." Ray assured her with a hug.

"Guess you really don't like foreign, huh, hospitals." She said to Trent who shook his head.

"Nope. Never." He said firmly, shot a glare at Ray who smirked, blew a kiss back.

"Well, there was that time Full Metal took him in." Brock glanced at his watch. Time to wrap it up. Katie would be home from her shift soon and he wanted to be there when she got in.

_***Full Metal spends the day with Clay***_

Scott, aka Full Metal, pushed spaghetti around his plate with his fork; boiled noodles, heated tomato sauce from a jar topped with frozen meatballs and canned Parmesan cheese.

Yay!

His day had sucked, why did dinner have to suck as well?

Up before dawn even broke, dinner while it was still daylight wasn't too early. Neither was the bottle of beer he drank with it.

Do me a favor, said Blackburn.  
You don't mind, do you, asked Hayes.  
He won't be any problem, laughed Perry.  
He bores easily, warned Quinn.  
No telling what he'll get up to, laughed Reynolds.  
He's hard to keep up with, smirked Sawyer.

HA!

He was exhausted and he hadn't done anything all god-damn day. Christ! He and his men had spent the morning in a van, watching activity in the town market with Bravo's Clay Spenser because he had agreed to 'watch the kid and not let him out of his sight'. Normal day, usually. But not with Spenser. He spoke the language, shared the conversations he overheard, watched everything out every window, kept them informed of everything he heard and saw: Wanted to go here, there, after this person, down that alley. How many times had that car, that truck, that bike passed? Did that guy look suspicious? She was shady. What was that kid doing? He should go high. Anyone mind, he climbed that?

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Finally – _finally_ – Scott felt he had a fairly good understanding why young Spenser was always missing. There was a pattern and he damn well knew Ray Perry had figured it out long ago. The kid heard shit no one thought he understood and he went to investigate. Now, in the beginning, Scott was sure Spenser had gone off all half-cocked on his own, but not now.

Now - _now,_ because he knew Jason Hayes - he was sure Bravo had given the kid a verbal beat down that had blistered his ears, made him see reason and curbed that tendency. So now he chattered away - he _never_ shut the fuck up - and tossed out suggestions and ideas until someone either told him no or agreed to go check it out with him.

Last night, after dinner when Hayes had sought him out to tell him they were switching Spenser with Alpha's sniper, Ryan, Scott had been proud – _proud!_ – that Hayes trusted him with the hot-shot rookie everyone still wanted.

But now? _Now?!_ Ohohohohoho! He was gonna plant a five-fingered-death-punch right on Bravo One's nose!

He sighed again, stabbed a meatball.

After the morning in the van, they'd returned to base, had lunch, gone to the shooting range to see just how great Spenser was - yeah, he showed-off, 'cause yeah, he was that good. Then the rookie had challenged them to a run. He'd led them on a five-mile jog up-hill, over dales, across streams and gullies, jumped from rock to rock. Who the hell ran in the heat of the day, after lunch? Up-hill? And then - _then!_ \- he'd found a pond and had gone swimming.

Rumors that the kid loved to run were not exaggerated. Good God Amighty, did Bravo's rookie luuuh-uf-uuvvee to work-out, run, train, compete. Full Metal had had to say no, when Clay had said he was going to hit the weights. Huge mistake, he'd later come to realize, because that had left the kid with nothing to do but find something to get into and someone to do it with.

His buzzing cell interrupted his morose pouting. He sighed again. Clay was confined to 'light duty' by an irate, over-set medic who had the ear of the team Doc.

After the day Full Metal had just had, Bravo's 'kid' was F.I.N.E. fine!

He. Was. Never. Going. To. Agree. To. Babysit. Clay. Spenser. Ever. Again.

The ability to amuse and entertain and watch him was an exhausting, attentive job that shouldn't be on another team Chief who had no apparent hope of controlling the man - even if he had agreed to do so.

Full Metal was stuck with a bored, restless, cranky Clay who texted him from his barracks - and Paul was right there! - while Bravo got to enjoy camping out with a fire? Yeah, not gonna happen. Scott grinned into his glass of water as he responded to the text requesting someone come paint him with baking soda.

Right back 'atcha, Hayes ole buddy.

***000***

Jason sipped his frothy sweet caramel tea concoction while he eyed the warm croissant gooey with dripping icing and fat with warm apples, sitting invitingly on a plate at the tip of his fingers. Wheee, lunch at, like dinner time.

Who wudda guessed this café was hidden in this charming little village geared towards tourists? Was there a better way to celebrate a long day hiking some flea-ridden, dusty trail up a mountainside? His mouth watered and he licked his lips in anticipation, dabbing a finger to scoop up some icing. He only indulged his sweet tooth once a month and by golly, he was going to enjoy every last flaky crumb, drip of icing and smidgen of warm apple filling flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg.

Warm gooey croissant in one hand, cup of tea in the other, he made the hard decision which hand to free, set the cup down, picked up his cell and clicked his text messages.

 _"Greetings, oh-wandering-great Chief, wow, can your sniper shoot!_ _[photo attached of Clay sprawled on his belly in the sun, shooting at targets]_

Jason scowled. What the fuck was the dumb ass doing outside in the sun?

 _"Greetings, Kemosabe, your ever-faithful sidekick Tonto reporting in. He does like to shoot at anything, doesn't he?"_ [ _photo attached of Clay on a ladder, hanging targets of various sizes from a tree branch.]_

Jason scowled. What part of, stay in, take it easy, and don't do anything stupid translated to; 'find and carry and climb a fucking ladder'? What the hell was the matter with him? What did he think he was doing?

 _"Greetings, oh-badass-Bravo Team member, kid claims he can shoot accurately with black powder! He even packs his own ammo! Woot!"_ [ _photo attached of Clay holding gun powder in one hand, a lighter in the other with a shit-eating grin.]_

Jason scowled. Why was the kid playing with explosive powders? I'm gonna smack him with the rod he used to pack those bullets for handling potentially dangerous ammunition that could, you know, take off a finger!

 _"Hey Bravo Boss, your rookie is awesome with cars. Changed that tire in less than five minutes!"_ _[photos attached of Clay jacking up a Humvee.]_

Jason scowled. What the Fuck?! I'm gonna break his fucking knee cap with the FUCKING tire iron for lifting something as heavy as a fucking Humvee tire. And, NO! it didn't matter they flipped tires in their daily work-out routine. That was completely different.

 _"Hey Jay-Jay, wow! Kid can run! Lookit the trail he took us on_!" _[video attached of Clay running and leaping and jumping on a mountain trail.]_

Jason scowled. Didn't Full Metal know the reason Clay had been left behind was because he hadn't met the - Trent's - physical requirements to accompany Bravo?

_"Hey Jay-Lo, nice day or what? Hope you got to enjoy it. Sun was hot but I made sure he had plenty of water." [video attached of Clay swimming in a mountain pond.]_

Jason scowled. Clay was still outside? What the fuck else could he have found to do outside? Shooting and flipping tires wasn't enough?

_"Wow, harder than I thought to keep an eye on him. He's like, never where I leave him. Whew!"_

Jason scowled. What the fuck **else** was he finding to do? Jason's parting instructions had been quite clear: Eat, sleep, watch porn.

_"Dude wanted to lift weights, I told him no. Now he's on a mission or quest or hunt or whatever to find a beehive with guys from the Army."_

Jason scowled. What the hell was he doing playing outside with guys from the Army? Why would Full Metal let him? Didn't he know the kid didn't play well with others? If he even touches that beehive, I'll poke him with the same stick he used to rile those poor bees until he cries.

 _"Holy Shit dude! They found it! Look at the size of that beehive_?! _[photo attached of Clay beaming with pride next to what looked to be a yellowish wad of gum on steroids.]_

Jason scowled. I swear to God, I'm gonna lock him in the brink next time I have to leave him behind.

 _"Hi-Ho-Aloha my good friend. You ever see a bee so huge! Think it's an Asian Giant Hornet?"_ _[photo of bee in palm of someone's hand attached.]_

Jason scowled. No mere bumble bee or yellow jacket or honey bee for Clay. Nope, course not.

 _"Gotta say, knew the kid could run, but not that fast!"_ _[video attached of Clay running from a swarm of bees, screaming like a little girl.]_

Jason scowled. Served the son-of-a-bitch right, least he wouldn't have to listen to him snivel. Hee-Hee! Good luck Full Metal!

 _"Okay, yeah so, ice, toothpaste, baking soda. Struck out! Kid sure did swell up._ " _[photo attached of Clay with white paste painted on his cheeks, nose, chin, forehead, hands, wrists.]_

Jason scowled. Was that a wrist or elbow or neck or all of the above? He tossed the phone, face sore from scowling for the last…whatever minutes.

Great, the congealed foam on the now cold tea rendered it unappealing, and the soggy sawdust formally known as his much-anticipated apple croissant forced him to admit his snack was ruined. He dropped the pastry onto the plate, covered it with a napkin and pushed it away.

When he got back to base, he was going to relieve Alpha One of his fucking camera phone.

"Trent!"

Trent came, read the emails, laughed, typed out a quick email informing Full Metal of a tried and true bee sting remedy, equal parts vinegar, baking soda and meat tenderizer that should quiet Clay's whines and whimpers. Liquid Benadryl only if he carried on too much.

He was not going to jump to conclusions or ask Jason if he could head back to base - 'cause really, how much trouble could a couple of bee stings be?

They finished eating, hit the trail. They had a job to do, put Clay and Full Metal from their immediate thoughts.

***000***

Camped for the night, coffee percolating in the coals of a fire, Bravo rolled out sleeping bags, sat down, stretched out, relaxed.

Hot dogs were grilling, cheesy bread was toasting, beer was chilling in a cloth bucket of cold water.

They were all tired, but even in their exhausted state there was no way any of them could FORGET they were blessed – cursed – with Clay as a brother. Full Metal's earlier texts to Jason still taunted them and they just had to know if there were any more. Trent'd told him not to call him unless Clay had lost an eye or a limb or a catastrophe, such as losing the kid in the shower, happened.

They hadn't had cell service the entire hike, but they were heading back to the village they'd left earlier and when Jason checked his cell – it was never a good idea to remain out of contact long with or about Clay, he found…..1, 2, 3, 4…20+ text messages.

All from Full Metal.

Ruh-Roh...

()()()

 _'Hey, let your medic know, his tried and true magic cure all for treating bee stings? Yeah, epic fail man.'  
'Oh. My. God.'  
'Whine, much?'  
'Hey, is Spenser allergic to anything?'  
'You know….I think he is….allergic, I mean….to bees.'  
'Yeah, yeah…..definitely allergic or something.'  
'Can I give him Benadryl tablets?'  
'Taking him to the infirmary.'  
'Well, that was a bust. Waste. Of. Time.'  
'He scared of Trent or something? Geesch.'  
'Wow….ER's crowded.'  
'Man, he did not want to come here. Ouch.'  
'Grown man throwing a fit, hum.'  
'Let the waiting commence.'  
'Patience is not a virtue he possesses is it?'  
'Had to chase him out the door, he decided he was leaving!'  
'Aanndd…..still waiting.'  
'Temper tantrum much?'  
'What is he? Two?'  
'Yeah, epic tantrum, man.'  
'No Nurse, he's not with me. I've never seen him before in my life.'  
'One way to see a doctor? Yeah, pass out on the floor.'  
'On my way to see him. Whoopee.'  
'Good God, he's a big baby.'  
'Correction – spoiled brat.'  
'New nurse, he appears to like this one.'  
'Holy Shit! I didn't carry on like that when my toe was CUT OFF!'  
'Jason, you there? Call me….'  
'They wanna know if he has any allergies to medications?'  
'Don't panic, called Blackburn.'  
'And Trent doesn't give him shots in the arm, why?'  
'They wanna admit him.'  
'Annnndd…..he says he's not staying.'  
"Wow, rude much?'  
__'Ouch! He really has an issue with local hospitals, huh?'_  
_'Memo to self: DO NOT PISS HIM OFF – EVER!'_  
_'Okay, I'm done. Come get your kid!'_

Jason dialed Full Metal's cell, the call went to voicemail. He needed aspirin. A lot. Maybe the bottle. He should have known Clay wouldn't be content to remain idle and watch porn. Should have known, he would find trouble. Should have known he would ignore Trent's suggestions and demands and orders and pleas to remain in their barracks and take it easy and take his time getting back on his feet. Aah well…an annoying Clay was an alive and accounted for Clay.

So, Full Metal was at the ER with Clay; Jason could easily guess the mood the kid was in. Served the big shit right. Scott was always, Clay's oh-so-awesome, Mr. Cool Dude under pressure, the best shot, Bravo was lucky to have someone with his language skills, blah, blah, blah….

ER? Admit? Local hospital?

Cheesy bread was spat, not swallowed; beer bottle was up-ended, not drunk; hot dog fell into the fire, the bun flung as Jason sat up, thumbed up Google and frantically began to tap.

Bees. Asian Hornets. Bee hives. Huge bees or wasps or hornets. Reactions. Allergic reactions. Symptoms. Medication given.

"TRENT!"

_()() several hours earlier ()()_

"OW!"

"Sit still." Derek muttered, tweezers in one hand, large sewing needle in the other. "You big baby." He plucked a stinger from Clay's palm. "And shut up."

Clay tried, a-serious-effort-try, to stop squirming, but….no, sitting still was not gonna happen. He gave Alpha's medic a cocky smirk in response to the man's glare of death and eyed the towel of ice sitting on the table next to him.

Derek narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything, returned his attention to his work - removing the remaining stingers from Clay's fingers, wrist, forearm, and back of his hand. His left arm had taken the majority of the stings and Clay stopped counting after the removal of the 7th stinger, opting to swig from the bottle Full Metal had let him have.

He had one free hand, Derek not about to relinquish hold of his other, and he could either drink or hold ice on his arm. If he could grow as many hands at will as he wanted, when he wanted them, he could hold ice on every spot that stung _and_ drink _and_ let Derek use his hand as a pin cushion _and_ punch Derek in the nose for doing so! Despite his fondness for mind-numbing alcohol, ice provided the better relief and he abandoned his beloved bottle with a look of longing.

He wanted to go lie down. His head ached, his throat was raw and his nose had an annoying habit of running. Full Metal must have tired of his sniffling for he plopped a box of tissues on the table and, with a look, wordlessly ordered Clay to use them instead of the towel of ice.

Clay gave a grunt, friggin' big giant had been hanging around Sonny too much. He tried to make a fist, but both his fingers and Derek's grip prevented the motion. He matched Derek's scowl, more to ignore the pain the attempt had caused than with any real irritation he had with the medic who wasn't Trent.

His fingers were puffy, red and swollen…..had he been stung on each and every fucking finger? Jesus Christ! Who knew bee stings could hurt sooooo much? Damn nose…..huh….was that his tongue or his lip? He had a tongue, right? Huh, wouldn't know, couldn't feel it, couldn't use it, didn't feel his teeth with it. Wow…..so, he'd been stung on his lip? And his mouth was…..swollen? He puckered up to blow a kiss...and couldn't breathe. His nostrils were blocked. Damn. He held the towel of ice to his face, the taste of the towel making him cough. Derek yanked his hand down.

"Use. A. Tissue." Derek said in disgust, didn't look up. "Dude…." He stabbed deeper, the jab a bit harder than necessary. "Sit. Still."

Clay gave a non-committal grunt and buried his face in the towel of ice. Derek was focused on his work, so other than an aggrieved sigh of capitulation; he let Clay have his way, thinking by the sounds and grunts and groans, Clay was way too fond of his towel.

"Stop. Coughing." Derek burst out, exasperated. "Sit. Still. Shut. Up. And. Be. Quiet." He might be irritated with Clay but he wasn't unaware of the situation. Clay was not being a dick just to amuse himself at Derek's expense. He had in the beginning, sure, but not now. Now, the pain and discomfort were real. "And stop digging at your eyes. Scratching them like that won't help."

The only bee he knew of that left a stinger embedded in the skin was a honey bee and these were no honey bee stings. He'd never seen such huge bees before and a quick search on the internet had identified what could be Asian Giant Hornets. Once he was done and Clay had gone on his merry way - which would be straight to bed - Derek and Full Metal would research bees a bit more.

They were aware of Clay's growing issues with medications, his reactions.

He had a couple bees Clay had killed while swatting at himself when they'd swarmed him. It was a good start. He couldn't find it within his heart to sympathize with Clay, who never should have bothered the hive to begin with, but oh-no, Mr. can't-leave-well-enough-alone had to go and poke it repeatedly, but he couldn't leave Clay to fend for himself either.

He grimaced, Clay's forefinger squeezed between his own, needle embedded deep enough to draw blood…yeah, no way to get at that stinger with mere tweezers. "Need a knife." He told Full Metal.

"For what?" Clay's eyes itched, their sockets dry and tight yet they constantly watered and man, his head hurt.

"Tweezers aren't gonna reach this one….needle ain't digging no deeper, but a knife….." Derek's eyes widened when a scalpel was slapped onto the table – and not from Full Metal.

He didn't even ask where it had come from or how Clay had been able to procure it sitting at the table. It seemed Bravo could produce anything upon request.

"Oh sure, sure…that'll work." He was hesitant to start slicing and cutting, not sure how his 'patient' would respond. He had no reason to worry; before he had time to recall Clay hadn't protested being punctured repeatedly with a needle, Bravo's sniper set the ice aside, picked up the scalpel and made the first cut. "DON'T DO THAT!" Derek yelped. "GIMME THAT!" With a growl, he snatched the blade from Clay's hand and smacked his knuckles. "You…you…well, you're not supposed to do that!"

"Just get on it with so I can put something on these stings and go lie down. Ice ain't cutting it."

"Yeah…well, you're own fault, dude." Derek dug with the tip of the scalpel, Clay tensed but remained still. "I'm not an expert on bee stings…I'll look it up when I'm done."

"Toothpaste." Clay announced. "How many more?"

"Couple is all….'less you got stung somewhere else?"

"Don't think so."

Derek glanced up. Was Clay slurring his words? How much had he drunk anyway?

"Wow, you sure do swell up." He commented, then fell silent, concentrating on his work. "Okay, done….toothpaste you say?"

()()()

Derek and Full Metal sat at the table with cups of fruit while they worked to identify the huge bees. Clay was tucked up in his bed, Paul, one of Alpha, tasked with keeping him there. Full Metal was exhausted and he hadn't done anything more than spend the day with 'Bravo's rookie'. How the hell did Jason do it day in, day out, every day, all day and not, you know, experience road rage or something?

Clay had sought them out via text during dinner that had been blah, complaining toothpaste wasn't helping. They'd tried baking soda. Fail. Bravo had _finally_ responded on Jason's phone and Full Metal had frightened meat tenderizer out of the mess tent slop chef. It had relieved the symptoms for maybe twenty minutes.

Derek logged on to his laptop and brought up his favorite search engine. He'd expected to hear back from Jason but other than the short text via the Chief's phone from Trent with what turned out to be a useless suggestion, there'd been no communication from Bravo.

How could a grown man carry on so about a few bee stings? Geesch. Ice didn't help the swelling, neither toothpaste nor baking soda eased the sting or removed the heat from the surrounding skin and after searching the entire mess tent for meat tenderizer, (who ever heard of such a remedy?), to make Trent's cure-all only for it to fail, Derek admitted defeat. Not even the generic liquid antihistamine he'd nagged Clay into taking had had any effect.

Clay was miserable and he wasn't faking his discomfort. His left arm, from fingernails to shoulder was swollen and red and every site where a bee stinger had been removed was inflamed. There were a couple on the back of his shoulder and one or two on his neck and no position he found to lie, gave him relief. Derek had been relieved Paul had been put on babysitting duty, and that Full Metal hadn't made Clay move to Alpha's barracks.

"Gonna hit the head." Full Metal said. "Be back in a few."

Okay, click-clack, bite of apple, click-clack, gulp of soda, click-click, open, open, close, close, open…hmmm, maybe…no…more yellow, less orange, close, click-clack, damn, that was a good apple, click-click-click, open….yeah…..that was a closer match.…..Japanese Giant Hornet….not much, if any difference between Asian Giant Hornet and Japanese…..huh….what was that? Whoa, wait a minute, hold on, back up, swing that boat around and pick me up 'cause I done fell off the inner tube…...

Injects large amounts of venom? Attacks nervous system? Damages tissue? Known to cause anaphylactic shock in people with allergies to bee stings? Can be lethal to non-allergic people? People stung more than ten times should seek medical help? Get emergency treatment for more than thirty stings? Stings can cause renal failure? Multiple deaths occurred every year from being stung?

What the bloody fuck kind of bees were these?!

Snack abandoned, Derek raced to Bravo's barracks. He was sure there was nothing to worry about, Clay hadn't once said he was allergic to bee stings or anything else…..but…..well…..after commenting that nothing was easing the painful welts and ice wasn't reducing any of the swelling, he'd grown uncharacteristically quiet and they hadn't heard from him in like...well...too long.

Wouldn't hurt to check on him, right?

"Dude? You asleep yet?" He didn't wait to be granted admission, just threw the door open. "Clay?" He switched on a light. "Oh. Fuck. Me."

Derek had seen someone suffer anaphylaxis before, had seen someone throw a severe allergic reaction, but he had damn well never seen anything like this: swollen lips, swollen nose, eyes swollen shut, cheeks puffy and red, shallow breaths, panted gasps, heaving chest.

Derek cursed. Curiosity turned to concern, concern to worry, worry to panic, and panic turned to frantic, out-of-his mind actions.

Derek herded and prodded and poked and dragged and maneuvered Clay from the bed until he got him on his feet, even if he did weave and sway and slump against the wall. Derek ignored his incoherent ramblings about killer bees and vats of hot liquid burning his skin off and blamed it on his inability to speak coherently. It was Clay's apparent troubled breathing, his rapid pulse and racing heart beneath the palm Derek laid on his chest to keep him upright that made the decision to take him to the infirmary an easy one.

"Come on." Derek steadied Clay with one hand, pulled his phone and called Full Metal with the other, told him to meet him at the infirmary soon as he could.

"Where we going?" Paul asked, holding Clay from the opposite side.

Once outside with fresh air blowing in his face, Clay revived and though he vehemently disagreed with the decision to take him to the infirmary, he let Derek and Paul lead him across the base yard.

One look at Clay and the medic on duty sent them straight to the ER.

Derek tried to call Blackburn but it went to voice mail, so Full Metal arranged transportation via a Humvee and both he and Derek accompanied Clay to the nearest hospital. He was bright-eyed with false sunny smiles upon entrance through the ER doors but it didn't last. They signed in with the tri-age nurse and took a seat in the waiting room and while Full Metal gleefully ruined Jason's day sending him texts, Clay passed out and hit the floor.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I lied...kinda…..this is the last chapter, just...it is longer than I had anticipated and cutting it down, seemed...wrong...so part two will be up later today!
> 
> It's America's Birthday and I'm home in this muggy weather, stuck inside with the lovely, lovely, a/c, so I have plenty of time to proof-read and still miss half the boo-boo's I'm looking for.


	11. Chapter 11

Clay woke up with a pounding head, dry throat and aching body. Man, he hurt in every joint and muscle he had. Ow. He took a moment to gain his senses and gather information to determine the situation he was in. He managed to raise his head and though his eyesight remained blurry, he looked around; a hospital. Great. How the hell had he ended up here?

Trent was gonna be pissed.

He plopped his head back on the pillow with a weary sigh and let his eyes close as he tried to recall what had happened. Details were fuzzy and out of order but...oh right. Bees. He'd been stung multiple times by bees and then…..? Huh, what had happened then? Something must have….okay, right, yeah….good….soooooo….nope, memory not coming to him.

But now? Oh, he knew now. The ER! He growled, shifted uncomfortably on the table…..he hated ER's. Being exposed for all to see, on his back, on a table with plastic cloths under his naked butt, covered by a thin, practically see-thru sheet; poked and prodded and pinched, stuck with needles…ugh.

Trent was gonna birth a freaking cow.

He remembered lying down on his bed because he hadn't been feeling well; his head buzzing and reeling and his chest aching but had he felt that bad he'd allowed the manipulation that had landed him here, naked on a gurney with a needle in his arm and chewing on a tongue depressor? Apparently. Huh. Okay, yeah, he'd been a little weak, little dizzy….head spun if he leaned forward or moved quickly but he'd hit his head - the reason he hadn't been allowed to go with Bravo - so not much of a surprise, except he'd been feeling no ill effects from that prior bump-on-the-head until after the bee incident...…

"Hey." Full Metal hovered in the doorway, medical curtain separating the beds in the ER ward. "Uh…..hi."

Clay rolled his head on the pillow, too tired and too lazy to lift it.

"How…you, ahh, feeling kid?" Scott asked awkwardly. He was way out of his element here. Where the hell was Blackburn? Why didn't Jason respond to any of the text messages? Why didn't someone call? What the hell did he and Derek know about Clay's past medical history? Nothing, that's what. Nadda, zip, zilch, zero. He couldn't answer the doctor's questions and Clay either couldn't or wouldn't.

"Like shit."

"Yeah you….I mean….dude, you look…..well….erhm, you don't look good."

"Yeah, really Sherlock?"

"Do you…..know who I am?" Scott asked tentatively. Since passing out in the ER, Clay hadn't been responsive or coherent; freaking out, zoning out or acting drugged out. The doctors were thinking he'd thrown a reaction to the medication they'd administered to counteract the venom from the bee stings. Medication that Clay wasn't responding to the way they'd hoped.

They were at a loss. Their facility was small, more of an out-patient clinic then a full-fledged hospital, with no specialists or specialties and since he wasn't reacting or responding to treatment as they'd expected him to, they no longer wanted to admit him, they wanted to transport him to a fully staffed hospital in nearby larger city...via ambulance.

Full Metal didn't have much hope Clay would be agreeable - Bravo's rookie wanted to return to base and Full Metal pretty much guessed Clay usually got his way.

"What the hell?" Clay scowled. He was in no mood for games. "Seriously, Full Metal what the fuck is wrong with you? I hit my head, you didn't."

"No…no…..you did, but…..you….I doubt that has anything to do with how you….were….how you're feeling now….you know….when….well, we got here. Maybe the medicine is working. Must be….you…you're awake and you're you."

Clay let his eyes close. What the hell was wrong with everyone? He'd been stung by a bee, okay, several bees but come on! He wasn't allergic. Damn! Who the hell had panicked over the sight of a few red, swollen welts? And yeah, okay, maybe his tongue had swelled but, well… _.and_ his lips, his eyes, oh and his cheeks and he hadn't been able to speak with his lips double their normal size, but that did not define allergy! Hell, it hadn't even been enough to get him immediate treatment upon entering the ER!

He didn't feel like medication had made him feel better. Well, not exactly true. He had a distant memory of having a hard time breathing, like Sonny had been sitting on his chest, and now he could breathe without gasping but he really didn't feel any better; still tired, still weak, still itchy, still hot and swollen, his skin still tight and achy. He still….hurt. Modern medicine truly wasn't all that wondrous.

"You taking me home? I need my clothes."

"…..sorry…..what?" Full Metal cleared his throat. "You….were, saying? Wait, you want to go home? Back to the base, you mean?" Where was the fun-loving, happy-go-luck kid he'd spent the day with? "You can't do that!"

"They can't make me stay here." Clay rubbed his ear, his cheek, his forehead. "I don't wanna stay."

"Well….no…but…the doctors don't think…"

And before Clay could say any more, the doctor pushed the curtain aside and began to inform Clay of his condition.

Wow. Full Metal knew the way to approach Clay and coax him into doing something he didn't want to do, was not with ultimatums and demands. The kid didn't blow up until he heard the words, 'transport by ambulance', and then, wow….over-react much? Who would have thought a man who couldn't hold his head up from the ER bed pillow could yell and argue and be so threatening and, erhm, dangerous?

Oh...uh...well...yeah, um, Full Metal much preferred the crazy, active, couldn't-sit-still Clay Spenser over this...this, uh, this one.

The argument between the doctor and Clay finally ceased when Derek entered the discussion and attempted to manipulate him by telling him what Trent would want. Clay calmed down some, uncertain and hesitant, but he allowed a nurse to take his vitals and give him water.

Since Full Metal's attendance in no way appeased their irate patient, the doctor asked him to step out into the hallway while his associate continued with her attempt to placate this patient. He wanted to discuss sedation, the possible use of restraints, tried to convince Full Metal that Clay was a danger to himself and the facility personal.

Derek popped his head around the curtain...duh, doc, hardly sound proof...flat out denied the request and Full Metal backed him up and both tried to talk Clay down, make him see reason and agree to the transfer.

It had been a perfectly-timed call from Blackburn to set Clay straight and make him obey.

*** _current time, wherever_ ***

Scott rubbed his eyes that burned from stress and fatigue. He'd lost track of time and events and all he wanted was to be back on base, in his bed with Clay Fucking Spenser returned to the care and supervision of Bravo. It'd all happened so fast, it'd been a blur. The ringing of his cell startled him out of his daze. He picked it up and glanced at the screen, eyes not cooperating with the too-bright light. Jason. Oh shit. Somehow, he'd forgotten all about Bravo - he hadn't thought to call them in, well, hours.

"Hullo?" He answered, then winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. He wasn't emotionally equipped to deal with an over-protective Bravo team and certainly not Trent, who was going ballistic. Wow, he'd take a fighting a terrorist cell any day over the spitting fury on the opposite end of the phone that was a worried, missing-their-kid, Bravo.

He was on speaker because everyone yammered in his ear:

"Metal? What did you do?"  
Where the hell are you?"  
"Are you back at base yet?"  
"Where's Clay?"  
"What the hell happened?"  
"You ever send texts like that again I will drown your ass in a mud puddle."

Scott waited for Trent, for he led the pack, to take a breath so he could get a word in, but apparently the Bravo medic had lungs like a fish and didn't need to breathe air, 'cause on and on he went.

"What the hell were you thinking? You let him poke a bee hive full of bees? (yeah, like bee hives were full of something other than bees) Where the hell were you? Don't you know he finds trouble in his bath tub?! Do you not remember his failed attempt to relocate a tree two days ago? Seriously Metal, what's wrong with you?"

"Aah, not a babysitter Trent," but he was pretty sure he went unheard. Relocate a tree? The hell! Oh, maybe that's how the kid hurt his head - he ran into a tree.

"…I told him to stay in bed, watch porn, eat pizza, how could you let him fuck that up?" Trent continued to rant, unmindful of Full Meta's interruption. "I mean, really Metal, don't let him out of your sight, what it too much to ask? All your fucking photos? Haha."

Full Metal rolled his eyes. "Let him? _Let him_? I couldn't _make_ him do anything! Do _you_ know him at all?"

"How the hell did he even know there was a hive? And why was he outside without you? Army men? Really? You trusted men from the Army with him?"

"Trent...hey...where's Jason?"

"Right here." Jason spoke up. "Guys...guys...HEY! Enough! Let him speak."

Full Metal was impressed when the grumbling and bickering ceased. He had to get Jason to tell him how to do that.

"He didn't respond to treatment at the so-called hospital the medic at the infirmary sent us to. Not intravenous antihistamines or cortisone or epinephrine and they tried a pretty strong dose of it, almost pure adrenaline." Full Metal said tiredly. He couldn't even remember what he'd told them or texted them.

Trent winced, pinched his nose between his eyes as his head began to pound. How did Clay's fun-filled antics get so serious?

"You said they wanted to admit him?" Ray prompted.

"Yeah, before, but...He was going in and out of consciousness and when he did wake up, he was confused and often combative and didn't respond the way the doctors wanted him to or to their requests to relax and calm down. He didn't want anything to do with me, wouldn't listen and they decided not to sedate him, not with the swelling in his throat."

"Wait…..what?" Trent stuttered. "Sedate? Oh hell no."

"Derek didn't let them." He paused. "Haven't you been listening to me? They're saying anaphylaxis shock."

"No…no…just no. He's not allergic to bee stings!" Trent protested.

"Is he allergic to anything?"

"Uh, yeah!"

"Your on your way back to base?" Full Metal asked.

"Really? You have to ask?" Jason spat.

"How the hell would I know? Not like you responded to any emails or texts." Full Metal said defensively. "It's been hours Jason."

"Mountains Metal, no cell reception." Ray chimed in dismissively. "And oh, yeah, on a _job_!"

"Then why didn't you call the sat phone?" Brock asked calmly.

"I did too." Trent snapped. When the situation had been comical, not serious.

"Didn't you talk to Blackburn?" Brock asked.

"Yeah, he's off base, but had Doc send the hospital Clay's do's and don'ts."

"Christ Scott, did you do anything right today?" Jason sniped tiredly.

"You know….that's not fair." Full Metal responded testily. "He doesn't come with an owner's manual, so stop yelling at me."

"What? Jesus….all you had to do was…" Trent began.

"Yeah, sorry dude, I didn't take introductory to babysitting Spenser 101." Full Metal continued. "Look, I'm kinda busy and it's late and I'm tired and the road is dark and if I ever have another day as fucked up as this one was, I'm smothering you all in your sleep, and no one, not even the Pentagon, will ever force me to take Clay Spenser on my team."

"Wait, where are you?" Ray asked.

"Driving back to base. They sent him by ambulance to..."

"WHAT?!"

"No…NO!"

"Jesus Full Metal…how did you let that happen?"

"How….did….I? What?" Scott sputtered. "What did I let happen?"

"Just…..why? You let them send him to another hospital? Why would you do that?" Trent asked. Yeah, he had no trouble believing their desire to transport Clay to a larger, better equipped facility. He just didn't like it.

"Why would you leave him? Let him go alone?"

"By ambulance?"

"I...!" And Full Metal exploded. "Shock Trent, shock! He was exhibiting signs of anaphylaxis shock! His blood pressure was low; he had difficulty breathing and trouble swallowing; he wheezes because his chest is tight because his lungs need air and makes him short of breath; his eyes are red and itch and water and his eyelids are so swollen you can't see his pupils; his face and tongue are puffy or bumpy; the welts are red and inflamed and itch; he's complained of a dry throat and a headache and dry eyes and being hot and itchy; his hand is so swollen he can't make a fist; his leg and arm are numb, he says it feels like they're asleep; his nose runs and his mouth itches and he tries to use his tongue to scratch it but it's swollen and he can't! AND DID I MENTION HE ITCHES?"

"Scott!"

"Stop yelling at me."

"And fuck you! All of you!" Full Metal was still yelling. "He looks like fucking Howard Wolowitz on that Big Bang Theory episode with Leonard's birthday party! I'm dealing...been trying to all day...it ain't easy you know, he ain't easy!" He paused for breath. "And where the hell have you been ALL DAMN DAY?!"

"Something's not right. He's not allergic to bee stings." Trent ignored Scott's mini-rant. He knew how frustrating dealing with and handlling Clay could be.

"IV meds eased the symptoms but the doctors said he didn't respond like he should have. At the second hospital, they injected antihistamines directly into his muscle and let me tell you, he did not like that and they put him on IV Corticosteroids."

"What?" Sonny was trying to keep up and understand and grasp what Full Metal was saying but all he heard was, yadda, yadda, yadda...steroids. "Metal…..is he ok?"

"Now you ask." Metal adjusted the rearview mirror, phone balanced on his shoulder with his chin, so he could see into the back of the Humvee. "Get his prescriptions filled in the morning at the infirmary."

"Wait….wait….just wait…..? He's with you? Do you have him with you?"

"I thought you sent him by ambulance to a hospital in another city?"

Full Metal sighed. And this was the problem with telling a story on speaker where five people all heard different things at different times, heard half of what was said, assumed the rest.

"Yes, we're driving home. He responded to the more aggressive meds at the hospital and once the swelling was down and his blood pressure and pulse, you know, heart rate returned to normal, there was no keeping him there."

"But I thought….."

"Didn't you say…"

"You said..."

"They sent him by ambulance to the closest hospital that had the IV meds he needed. Derek went with him, I followed in a Humvee I stole, by the way. Treated and released AMA and now we're driving back to base." Full Metal said tiredly. "Derek's sitting in the back with him."

"How did you get him in the ambulance?" Brock asked quietly. "Sonny, shut up!"

Finally, Full Metal thought, the sole, sane member of Bravo was taking control.

"Blackburn called. He set Spenser straight about a thing or two."

"…let me talk to him." Jason said impatiently. "Full Metal….Scott..hey!"

"Huh? Oh yeah, sure….he's kinda outta it…but you can try."

He passed the phone to Derek who took it with a yawn, shook Clay awake.

"…'lo?" Clay slurred sleepily, roused from his stupor by a familiar voice repeatedly calling his name. "...ooze, is?"

"It's Jason," came the testy reply. "What the hell Clay?"

"Boss….hey….." He rolled his head on the bench. "I…doan…..dn't feel good." He yawned. "You...comin' ta'git'me?"

"Yeah kid, we're on our way."

Derek took the phone when Clay let it drop to the floor. "Hayes? Yeah, it's Derek...huh? We're maybe an hour out from base...yeah...when will you get back? Oh. That long, huh?" He sighed in disappointment. "No, no, we won't leave him alone...doubt he'll stay in the infirmary...what?"

"Blackburn will be there when you get back, leave Spenser with him. Davis will take over. Thanks Derek."

"Uh, sure." He hung up. "Hayes said Blackburn's on base, will take over with Spenser." He told Full Metal.

"Good."

Once Spenser was with Blackburn, he and Derek were gonna hit the nearest bar and get - blissfully soused. That was his plan, he was a man with a plan, just call him Stan, 'cause he just made a new plan.

()()()

Clay was confused, in pain, and assaulted by bites that stung and stabbed so severely, he groaned with a curse. Opening his eyes didn't make him feel any better either. When they first blinked opened, the light hurt, which was so wrong, because it was dark, and they refused to focus, not that he tried too hard to make them do so, and he promptly allowed them to close.

He was either still asleep and dreaming, unconscious and delirious or he had finally lost his mind for he was damn sure he didn't know where he was, what had happened, or who he was with. Maybe he was hallucinating….yeah….induced by copious amounts of alcohol, 'cause he felt like he'd spent a week bingeing grain alcohol like when he'd been twenty-one or so and tried to drink that biker chick under the table. Yeah, he'd failed.

Sighing, he bit his lip against the discomfort that surged a flush of warmth throughout his body and forced his eyes open again. His eyes finally adjusted and focused - tan metal, canvas roof, huge ass gun.

His frown deepened, he didn't remember his feet carrying him into the….where was he? He was confused but didn't feel alarmed. He groaned, shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench he laid on. He was so stiff and sore...he swallowed hard, body flushing with renewed warmth…..oh dear god, he was going to puke! He lurched off the bench, stumbling when the floor proved to be uneven and moving, ended up on his hands and knees, nose between a pair of boots.

What the….? Where was the fucking door? Where the fuck was he and how soon could he leave? He reached out, grappled for purchase, found a handle, pushed down, felt the rush of cool air...and was grabbed, bear-hugged from behind, pushed flat to the floor on his stomach.

"Hey!" Derek yelped in alarm. "Metal! Pull over!" He pulled the door closed.

"Where do you suggest I do that?" He retorted waspishly.

"Then just stop!" He had his hands full, wrestling a determined-to-escape Clay to prevent him from falling out of the Humvee door. "Jesus Spenser...stop...just stop...the fuck you doing?"

Scott slammed on the brakes, brought the heavy Humvee to an abrupt halt. Derek slammed into the back of his seat with a curse. Clay grunted at the weight on his back, tried to push up by placing his palms flat on the floor, stomach already heaving into his throat.

Holding onto Clay by grasping the waist of his jeans with a steel fist, Derek opened the door and let him hang his head over the threshold.

"Derek?" Metal twisted around.

"Give him five."

"Make it three. Can't stay here." Full Metal checked all the mirrors...well, both. There was no rear-view mirror. "Pull him in." He ordered anxiously. The thought of what Jason would do to him if anything happened to the kid hanging of out an armed, military Humvee in the middle of the night made him uneasy.

No, it had nothing to do with Jason. They were vulnerable where they were. Their vehicle hardly inconspicuous. They needed to get moving.

"Go." Derek said finally, pulled Clay back in and closed the door, left the kid on the floor. "Spenser? Hey, yeah you, stay down."

Clay rolled over, remained on the floor on his back, knees raised. He didn't know how much time passed, and though he was no longing heaving and his knees had stopped knocking together, he still had no idea where he was, how he'd gotten there, who was with him…or why. He flopped a limp hand all about the floor in search of something he could use to wipe his mouth. God, he felt _awful_ ; truly and utterly and completely _awful_!

He blinked blearily, slid left, some fogged distant part of his brain telling him he was moving. What the…? Someone was tugging on his arm. He didn't like that, didn't feel afraid, swatted out blindly. Derek swatted back and a slap-fight ensued. Clay was too tired and too sluggish to carry on and soon gave up, allowing the pull on his arm to guide him away from the door.

His arm was released and he rolled to his side, mostly on his shoulder. He held his throat, for surely it had crawled into his mouth and engaged his tongue in a war to prevent being pushed back to where it belonged. Lordy-Lordy-Lordy but he did not feel well. What the hell was wrong with him anyway? Trying to recall what was going on made him dizzy. Fog and cobwebs crisscrossed his memory and muddled his ability to think coherently.

He frowned, fingers massaging his temple over his left eye, bits and flashes of memory pinged – bees stings - he'd had numerous bee-stingers ruthlessly plucked and dug and cut from skin and it had _hurt_. He'd gone to bed painted in toothpaste and baking soda...and something else, but someone had come barging in, blathering on about allergies and allergic reactions being lethal and bee venom causing renal failure and any hope Clay had of controlling the situation was lost.

So, uh, the ER, then the ER floor, which apparently got you immediate attention for he'd woken up on a table – he growled, without his clothes, damn hospitals always wanted you naked, it's why he hated them – an ambulance ride…needles and tubes and more needles….and then…..and then….nothing.

His nose twitched then wrinkled. His stomach soured and threatened another rebellion and his already black and blue, red-spotted, needle-punctured, swollen body tensed in protest. He hiccupped, his nose blew bubbles, he wiped at it with the back of his hand, panted, a sheen of sweat coated his cheeks and forehead. Gawd, why did he feel like this?

"Spenser? Whatcha doing?" Derek asked quietly.

"Aah…fainting." And he collapsed flat, went limp.

"We close?" Derek asked Full Metal.

"Think so," came the reply. "He okay?"

"No fucking clue."

Blackburn met them when Full Metal drove as close to their barracks as he could get. Davis was with him and neither seemed overly upset or concerned about Clay. They were laughing when Davis opened the back door and greeted Derek.

Full Metal climbed out of the driver's seat, a soldier waited to return it. He half expected MP's to be waiting for him, but apparently Bravo's Lieutenant Commander's pull and influence extended to him.

"Spenser," Davis was saying. "You've done it this time."

"Can he walk?" Eric asked Derek. "Spenser? You with me?"

"Don't bother." Derek blew his breath out. "You manage to rouse him, he's not going to be with it."

"My quarters." Eric said. "I've got his feet."

"Nye...kin...wolk." Clay slurred. "Nay Davis."

"Hey there, what'd you go'n do?" She teased. "So, Full Metal, fill us in, then you and Derek can go sack out."

Huh, he wasn't exactly used to taking orders or suggestions from a logistics specialist, but apparently, she was used to giving them and being obeyed, so he followed alongside her after Blackburn and Derek.

They made it to Eric's quarters when Clay simply decided he was done walking, let go of Derek and sank to the floor, taking Eric him.

Full Metal expected Eric to push Clay off his lap, drag him to the bed, but the Commander repositioned himself and sat where he was, and while he couldn't possibly be comfortable, he allowed the dead weight that was Clay to remain sprawled across his legs.

He snorted, yeah, Blackburn wouldn't do well on an airplane that was preparing to crash. The flight attendants instructions to secure your own oxygen mask before attempting to help those around you would never be obeyed if Blackburn was responsible for securing Clay's.

"Ow." Clay moaned pitifully, shifting uneasily. "Naw." His hands went to his head and he rolled one way, then the other, then back. Eric moved one leg to give Clay more floor space and with his other, used his knee to prod Clay over to his left hip.

"You ok?" Eric asked after several minutes, oblivious to the room's other occupants. "Spenser?"

"Bugger off." He squirmed, slithering his complete way to the floor, willing his stomach to settle. He lay upon something hard but against something soft and warm. He wasn't comfortable but….but he felt _safe_. Gaining control of his rebellious stomach, he concentrated on focusing his eyes and squinted up into the upside down bearded face of...

Oh shit.

Woozy, warm and nauseous, he used both hands to push up, paused. He couldn't lower his head to his hand, couldn't raise his hand to his head. He remained slumped over, squirmed, wiggled, twisted, grunted but he simply could not get off the floor or off his Team's Commander's lap.

Oh, the embarrassment.

"He's been doped-up or drugged-out or knocked stupid since we left here." Derek explained. "I can get him to come around, but he's groggy."

"Best to just let him sleep." Eric said, motioned to Full Metal and Derek to pick Clay up and move him to the bed. "Let Bravo deal with him, they have the best luck, reeling him in."

"He should be in the infirmary." Derek advised.

"He won't stay. Anything I should look out for?"

"Doc said to worry about his breathing if the swelling worsens." Clay sprawled on the single bunk, Derek gave Eric a hand up. "It's come down a lot, he looks much better."

Davis snorted. "He looks like shit."

"These last two days...I'm telling you Blackburn, don't ever leave him with me again."

Blackburn burst out laughing. "Hell Full Metal, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours!"

"I'm done." Full Metal began to back his way out of the room. "He's all yours, and when Bravo gets back, don't tell them where to find me."

Eric gave him an odd look, Davis, fluffing the pillow, blanket tucked under her arm, gave him the same look.

"Jason is going to kill me." Full Metal said sheepishly. "But...hell, it's Trent who scares me." He confessed with a shrug. "I promised I'd look after the kid, not let him out of my sight and what happens?"

WHAP!

A pillow whacked him in the face, he stumbled back a step. "The hell was that for!"

"You big oaf!" Davis exclaimed. "You daft man! There is no way anyone can 'keep an eye' on Spenser. It's not possible!"

"What?"

"They're not going to blame you for what happened." She punched him in the deltoid muscle with a chuckle. "They're going to make fun of you."

"Those bee stings...his allergic reaction...…" Full Metal stammered. "It was serious Davis."

"Pfft!" She snorted. "It's Clay!"

"Bravo knows that." Eric clapped him on the back. "Aah Scott, you do realize Doc called Trent, right? They know everything." He grinned, a shit-eating, ear-to-ear, grin. "They know more than you do."

Full Metal's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Here now, go get some sleep."

"They...they...were _teasing_?! You mean...when Jason called...they'd already talked to Doc?!" Full Metal fumed. "I'm gonna kill 'em!"

Eric nodded. "Doc was in constant contact with the hospital while they were treating him, had Trent on the other line."

"Are they really on their way down?" Derek asked.

"They are," Eric shrugged. "Job is done and they're anxious to see Clay. Why wait 'til morning?"

Full Metal smacked his fist into his palm, growled, pivoted and strode out the door.

"Pay back." Derek warned.

Eric grinned. "Night."

_***000***_

"Dad, you didn't!" Emma exclaimed. "Clay was miserable and Full Metal felt bad and you...you...how could you?"

Ray laughed, strode over to the hammock, but before he could jostle Clay awake, Jason told him to let the kid be.

"Time to go Jay." Ray said. "Call it a night."

"He can sleep there."

"Come on, Harlequin, I'll give you a ride home." Lisa told Sonny. "Night Ems."

Clay snuggled under the fleece, he didn't mind spending what was left of the night at his boss's house.


End file.
